OP  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


By  WILL  LILLIBRIDGE 


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CHICAGO 


She  wheeled  swiftly  round,  confronting  him. 

[See  "Journey's  End."] 


A 
BREATH  of  PRAIRIE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

WILL  LILLIBRIDGE 

AUTHOR  OF  "BEN  BLAIR,"  "THE  DOMINANT  DOLLAR,"  ETC. 


WITH  FIVE  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR 
BY  J.  N.  MARCHAND 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1911 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 
1911 


Published  April,  1911 


IB.  3L  Ijali  Anting 


A  TRIBUTE 

IT  IS  an  accepted  truth,  I  believe,  that  every  novelist 
embodies  in  the  personalities  of  his  heroes  some  of 
his  own  traits  of  character.  Those  who  were  intimately 
acquainted  with  William  Otis  Lillibridge  could  not  fail  to 
recognize  this  in  a  marked  degree.  To  a  casual  reader, 
the  heroes  of  his  five  novels  might  perhaps  suggest  five 
totally  different  personalities,  but  one  who  knows  them 
well  will  inevitably  recognize  beneath  the  various  dis 
guises  the  same  dominant  characteristics  in  them  all. 
Whether  it  be  Ben  Blair  the  sturdy  plainsman,  Bob  Mc- 
Leod  the  cripple,  Dr.  Watson,  Darley  Roberts,  or  even 
How  Landor  the  Indian,  one  finds  the  same  foundation 
stones  of  character,  —  repression,  virility,  firmness  of  pur 
pose,  an  abhorrence  of  artificiality  or  affectation, — love 
of  Nature  and  of  Nature's  works  rather  than  things  man- 
made.  And  these  were  unquestionably  the  pronounced 
traits  of  Will  Lillibridge 's  personality.  Markedly  re 
served,  silent,  forceful,  he  was  seldom  found  in  the  places 
where  men  congregate,  but  loved  rather  the  company  of 
books  and  of  the  great  out-doors.  Living  practically  his 
entire  life  on  the  prairies  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that  he 
was  greatly  influenced  by  his  environment.  And  certain 
it  is  that  he  could  never  have  so  successfully  painted  the 
various  phases  of  prairie-life  without  a  sympathetic,  per 
sonal  knowledge. 

The  story  of  his  life  is  characteristically  told  in  this 
brief  autobiographical  sketch,  written  at  the  request  of  an 
interested  magazine. 

[v] 


A  TRIBUTE 

"I  was  born  on  a  farm  in  Union  County,  Iowa,  near 
the  boundary  of  the  then  Dakota  Territory.  Like  most 
boys  bred  and  raised  in  an  atmosphere  of  eighteen  hours 
of  work  out  of  twenty-four,  I  matured  early.  At  twelve 
I  was  a  useful  citizen,  at  fifteen  I  was  to  all  practical 
purposes  a  man,  —  did  a  man's  work  whatever  the  need. 
In  this  capacity  I  was  alternately  farmer,  rancher,  cattle 
man.  Something  prompted  me  to  explore  a  university 
and  I  went  to  Iowa,  where  for  six  years  I  vibrated  between 
the  collegiate,  dental,  and  medical  departments.  After 
graduating  from  the  dental  in  1898  I  drifted  to  Sioux 
Falls  and  began  to  practise  my  profession.  As  the  years 
passed  the  roots  sank  deeper  and  I  am  still  here. 

"  Work  ?  My  writing  is  done  entirely  at  night.  The 
waiting-room,  —  the  plum-tree,  —  requires  vigorous  shak 
ing  in  the  daytime.  After  dinner,  —  I  have  a  den,  tele 
phone-proof,  piano-proof,  friend-proof.  What  transpires 
therein  no  one  knows  because  no  one  has  ever  seen. 

"  Recreation?  I  have  a  mania,  by  no  means  always 
gratified,  —  to  be  out  of  doors.  Once  each  summer  '  the 
Lady  '  and  I  go  somewhere  for  a  time,  —  and  forget  it 
absolutely.  In  this  way  we've  been  able  to  travel  a  bit. 
We, — again  'the  Lady*  and  I,  —  steal  an  hour  when 
we  can,  and  drive  a  gasoline  car,  keeping  within  the  speed 
laws  when  necessary.  Once  each  Fall,  when  the  first 
frost  shrivels  the  corn-stalk  and  when,  if  you  chance  to  be 
out  of  doors  after  dark  you  hear,  away  up  overhead,  invisi 
ble,  the  accelerating,  throbbing,  diminishing  purr  of 
wings  that  drives  the  sportsman  mad, — the  town  knows 
me  no  more." 

Every  novel  may  have  a  happy  close,  but  a  real  life's 
story  has  but  one  inevitable  ending,  —  Death. 

And  to  the  Lady"  has  been  left  the  sorrowful  task 
of  writing  Finis  "  across  the  final  page. 

[vi] 


A  TRIBUTE 

January  29,  1909,  he  died  at  his  home  in  Sioux  Falls 
after  a  brief  illness.  But  thirty -one  years  of  age,  he  had 
won  a  place  in  literature  so  gratifying  that  one  might 
well  rest  content  with  a  recital  of  his  accomplishments. 
But  his  youth  suggests  a  tale  that  is  only  partly  told  and 
the  conjecture  naturally  arises,  —  "What  success  might 
he  not  have  won  ?  "  Five  novels,  "  Ben  Blair,"  "  Where 
the  Trail  Divides,"  "The  Dissolving  Circle,"  "  The 
Quest  Eternal,"  and  "The  Dominant  Dollar,"  be 
sides  magazine  articles,  and  a  number  of  short  stories 
(many  of  them  appearing  in  this  volume)  were  all  written 
in  the  space  of  eight  years'  time,  and,  as  he  said,  were 
entirely  produced  after  nightfall. 

While  interested  naturally  in  the  many  phases  of  his 
life, — as  a  professional  man,  as  an  author,  as  the  chief 
factor  in  the  domestic  drama,  —  yet  most  of  all  it  pleases 
me  to  remember  him  as  he  appeared  when  under  the  spell 
of  the  prairies  he  loved  so  well.  Tramping  the  fields  in 
search  of  prairie-chicken  or  quail,  a  patient  watcher  in  the 
rushes  of  a  duck-pond,  or  merely  lying  flat  on  his  back  in 
the  sunshine,  —  he  was  a  being  transformed.  For  he 
had  in  him  much  of  the  primitive  man  and  his  whole 
nature  responded  to  the  "call  of  the  wild."  But  you 
who  know  his  prairie-tales  must  have  read  between  the 
lines,  —  for  who,  unless  he  loved  the  honk"  of  the 
wild  geese,  could  write,  to  those  who  have  heard  it  year 
by  year  it  is  the  sweetest,  most  insistent  of  music.  It  is 
the  spirit  of  the  wild,  of  magnificent  distances,  of  free 
dom  impersonate ' '  ? 

To  the  late  Mrs.  Wilbur  Teeters  I  am  indebted  for  the 
following  tribute,  which  appeared  in  the  Iowa  Alum 
nus." 

"  Dr.  Lillibridge's  field  of  romance  was  his  own. 
Others  have  told  of  the  Western  mountains  and  pictured 

[vii] 


A  TRIBUTE 

the  great  desert  of  the  Southwest,  but  none  has  painted 
with  so  masterful  a  hand  the  great  prairies  of  the  North 
west,  shown  the  lavish  hand  with  which  Nature  pours 
out  her  gifts  upon  the  pioneer,  and  again  the  calm  cruelty 
with  which  she  effaces  him.  In  the  midst  of  these  scenes 
his  actors  played  their  parts  and  there  he  played  his  own 
part,  clean  in  life  and  thought,  a  man  to  the  last,  slipping 
away  upon  the  wings  of  the  great  storm  which  had  just 
swept  over  his  much-loved  land,  wrapped  in  the  snowy 
mantle  of  his  own  prairies." 

EDITH    KELLER-LILLIBRIDGE 


[via] 


I 

II 

III 

IV 


V 

VI 

VII 


VIII 
IX 

X 

XI 

XII 

XIII 


CONTENTS 

A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE  . 
THE  DOMINANT  IMPULSE 
THE  STUFF  OF  HEROES 
ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS  . 


PAGE 
13 
61 

87 
109 


CHAPTER  I 
CHAPTER  II 
CHAPTER  III 
CHAPTER  IV 
CHAPTER  V 
CHAPTER  VI 
CHAPTER  VII 
JOURNEY'S  END 
A  PRAIRIE  IDYL 


PRELUDE. 

THE  LEAP. 

THE  WONDER  OF  PRAIRIE. 

A  REVELATION. 

THE  DOMINANCE  OF  THE  EVOLVED. 

BY  A  CANDLE'S  FLAME. 

THE  PRICE  OF  THE  LEAP. 

...          239 
265 


THE  MADNESS  OF  WHISTLING  WINGS  279 


CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER 

CHAPTER  VIII 

CHAPTER      IX 

CHAPTER        X 

CHAPTER      XI 


I 

II 

III 

IV 

V 

VI 

VII 


SANDFORD  THE  EXEMPLARY. 

THE  PRESAGE  OF  THE  WINGS. 

THE  OTHER  MAN. 

CAPITULATION. 

ANTICIPATION. 

"MARK  THE  RIGHT,  SANDFORD!" 

THE  BACON  WHAT  AM. 

FEATHERED  BULLETS. 

OBLIVION. 

UPON  "WIPING  THE  EYE." 

THE  COLD  GRAY  DAWN. 
A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE:     A  TALE  OF 

JUMEL  MANSION        ....         309 
THE  CUP  THAT  O'ERFLOWED :     AN 

OUTLINE 339 

UNJUDGED 347 

THE  TOUCH  HUMAN 367 

A  DARK  HORSE      .       .       .       .       .       .373 

THE  WORTH  OF  THE  PRICE  .393 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Page 
She  wheeled  swiftly  round,  confronting  him      Frontispiece 

They  saw  the  hands  which  had  gone  to  hips  flash  up 
and  forward  like  pistons,  and  two  puffs  of  smoke 

like  escaping  steam 74 

"You '11  apologize" 190 

The  two  men  went  East  together       .          .          .  326 

He  heard  a  voice     ....     and  glanced  back  388 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 
I 

DENSE  darkness  of  early  morning 
wrapped  all  things  within  and  without 
a  square,  story-and-a-half  prairie  farm-house. 
Silence,  all-pervading,  dense  as  the  darkness, 
its  companion,  needed  but  a  human  ear  to  be 
come  painfully  noticeable. 

Up-stairs  in  the  half -story  attic  was  Life. 
From  one  corner  of  the  room  deep,  regular 
breathing  marked  the  unvarying  time  of  healthy 
physical  life  asleep.  Nearby  a  clock  beat  loud 
automatic  time,  with  a  brassy  resonance  — 
healthy  mechanical  life  awake.  Man  and  ma 
chine,  side  by  side,  punctuated  the  passage  of 
time. 

Alone  in  the  darkness  the  mechanical  mind 
of  the  clock  conceived  a  bit  of  fiendish  pleas- 

[13] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

antry.  With  violent,  shocking  clamor,  its 
deafening  alarm  suddenly  shattered  the  still 
ness. 

The  two  victims  of  the  outrage  sat  up  in  bed 
and  blinked  sleepily  at  the  dark.  The  younger, 
in  a  voice  of  wrath,  relieved  his  feelings  with 
a  vigorously  expressed  opinion  of  the  applied 
uses  of  things  in  general,  and  of  alarm-clocks 
and  milk  pans  in  particular.  He  thereupon 
yawned  prodigiously,  and  promptly  began 
snoring  away  again,  as  though  nothing  had 
interrupted. 

The  other  man  made  one  final  effort,  and 
came  down  hard  upon  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
Rough  it  was,  uncarpeted,  cold  with  the  damp 
chill  of  early  morning.  He  groped  for  a  match, 
and  dressed  rapidly  in  the  dim  light,  his  teeth 
chattering  a  diminishing  accompaniment  until 
the  last  piece  was  on. 

Deep,  regular  breathing  still  came  from  the 
bed.  The  man  listened  a  moment,  irresolutely; 
then  with  a  smile  on  his  face  he  drew  a  feather 
from  a  pillow,  and,  rolling  back  the  bed-clothes, 
he  applied  the  feather's  tip  to  the  sleeper's  bare 
soles,  where  experience  had  demonstrated  it  to 

[14] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

be  the  most  effective.  Dodging  the  ensuing 
kick,  he  remarked  simply,  "I'll  leave  the  light, 
Jim.  Better  hurry  —  this  is  going  to  be  a 
busy  day." 

Outside,  a  reddish  light  in  the  sky  marked 
east,  but  over  all  else  there  lay  only  starlight, 
as,  lantern  in  hand,  he  swung  down  the  frozen 
path.  With  the  opening  barn  door  there  came 
a  puff  of  warm  animal  breath.  As  the  first 
rays  of  light  entered,  the  stock  stood  up  with 
many  a  sleepy  groan,  and  bright  eyes  shining 
in  the  half-light  swayed  back  and  forth  in  the 
narrow  stalls,  while  their  owners  waited  pa 
tiently  for  the  feed  they  knew  was  coming. 

Jim,  still  sleepy,  appeared  presently;  to 
gether  the  two  went  through  the  routine  of 
chores,  as  they  had  done  hundreds  of  times 
before.  They  worked  mechanically,  being  still 
stiff  and  sore  from  the  previous  day's  work,  but 
swiftly,  in  the  way  mechanical  work  is  some 
times  done. 

Side  by  side,  with  singing  milk  pails  between 
their  knees,  Jim  stopped  long  enough  to  ask, 
"Made  up  your  mind  yet  what  you'll  do, 
Guy?" 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

The  older  brother  answered  without  a  break 
in  the  swish  of  milk  through  foam : 

"  No,  I  haven't,  Jim.  If  it  wasn't  for  you 
and  father  and  mother  and  —  ''he  diverted  with 
a  redoubled  clatter  of  milk  on  tin. 

"Be  honest,  Guy,"  was  the  reproachful 
caution. 

"  —  and  Faith,"  added  the  older  brother 
simply. 

The  reddish  glow  in  the  east  had  spread  and 
lit  up  the  earth;  so  they  put  out  the  lantern, 
and,  bending  under  the  weight  of  steaming  milk 
pails,  walked  single  file  toward  the  house  and 
breakfast.  Far  in  the  distance  a  thin  jet  of 
steam  spreading  broadly  in  the  frosty  air 
marked  the  location  of  a  threshing  crew.  The 
whistle,  —  thin,  brassy,  —  spoke  the  one  word 
"  Come  ! "  over  miles  of  level  prairie,  to  the 
scattered  neighbors. 

Four  people,  rough,  homely,  sat  down  to  a 
breakfast  of  coarse,  plain  cookery,  and  talked 
of  common,  homely  things. 

"  I  see  you  did  n't  get  so  much  milk  as  usual 
this  morning,  Jim,"  said  the  mother. 

[16] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"No,  the  line-backed  heifer  kicked  over  a 
half-pailful." 

"  Coin'  to  finish  shuckin'  that  west  field  this 
week,  Guy  ? "  asked  the  father. 

"Yes.     We'll  cross  over  before  night." 

Nothing  more  was  said.  They  were  all 
hungry,  and  in  the  following  silence  the  jangle 
of  iron  on  coarse  queensware,  and  the  aspira 
tion  of  beverages  steaming  still  though  under 
going  the  cooling  medium  of  saucers,  filled  in 
all  lulls  that  might  otherwise  have  seemed  to 
require  conversation. 

Not  until  the  boys  got  up  to  go  to  work  did 
the  family  bond  draw  tight  enough  to  show. 
Then  the  mother,  tenderly  as  a  surgeon,  dressed 
the  chafed  spots  on  her  boys'  hands,  saying  low 
in  words  that  spoke  volumes,  "  I  '11  be  so  glad 
when  the  corn's  all  husked";  and  the  father 
followed  them  out  onto  the  little  porch  to  add, 
"  Better  quit  early  so 's  to  hear  the  speakin5  to 
night,  Guy." 

"How  are  you  feeling  to-day,  father?" 
asked  the  young  man,  in  a  tone  he  attempted 
to  make  honestly  interested,  but  which  an  in- 

[17] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

finite  number  of  repetitions  had  made  almost 
automatic. 

The  father  hesitated,  and  a  look  of  sadness 
crept  over  his  weathered  face. 

"  No  better,  Guy."  He  laid  his  hand  on  the 
young  man's  shoulder,  looking  down  into  the 
frank  blue  eyes  with  a  tenderness  that  made  his 
rough  features  almost  beautiful. 

"It  all  depends  upon  you  now,  Guy,  my 
boy."  Unconsciously  his  voice  took  on  the  in 
comparable  pathos  of  age  displaced.  "  I  'm  out 
of  the  race,"  he  finished  simply. 

The  heavy,  weather-painted  lumber  wagon 
turned  at  the  farm-yard,  and  rumbled  down  a 
country  road,  bound  hard  as  asphalt  in  the  fall 
frosts.  The  air  cut  sharply  at  the  ears  of  the 
man  in  the  box,  as  he  held  the  lines  in  either 
hand  alternately,  swinging  its  mate  with  vigor. 
The  sun  was  just  peeping  from  the  broad  lap 
of  the  prairie,  casting  the  beauty  of  color  and 
of  sparkle  over  all  things.  Ahead  of  the  wagon 
coveys  of  quail  broke  and  ran  swiftly  in  the 
track  until  tired,  when,  with  a  side  movement 
the  tall  grass  by  the  border  absorbed  them. 
Flocks  of  prairie-chickens,  frightened  by  the 

[18] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

clatter,  sprang  winging  from  the  roadside,  and 
together  sailed  away  on  spread  wings.  The 
man  in  the  wagon  looked  about  him  and  for 
getting  all  else  in  the  quick-flowing  blood  of 
morning,  smiled  gladly. 

He  stopped  at  the  edge  of  the  field,  tying 
the  reins  loosely  and  building  up  the  sideboards, 
gradually  shorter,  each  above  the  other, 
pyramid-like,  until  they  reached  higher  than 
his  own  head  as  he  stood  in  the  wagon-box. 
Stiff  from  the  jolting  and  inactivity  of  the 
drive,  he  jumped  out  upon  the  uneven  surface 
of  the  corn-field. 

Slowly  at  first,  as  sore  fingers  rebelled  against 
the  roughness  of  husks,  he  began  work,  touch 
ing  the  frosty  ears  gingerly;  then  as  he  warmed 
to  the  task,  stopping  at  nothing.  The  frost, 
dense,  all-covering,  shook  from  the  stalks  as 
he  moved,  coloring  the  rusty  blue  of  his 
overalls  white,  and  melting  ice-cold,  wet  him 
through  to  the  skin  on  arms  and  shoulders  and 
knees.  Swiftly,  two  motions  to  the  ear,  he  kept 
up  a  tapping  like  the  regular  blows  of  a  ham 
mer,  as  the  ears  struck  the  sideboard.  Fifteen 

[19] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

taps  to  the  minute,  you  would  have  counted;  a 
goodly  man's  record. 

This  morning,  though,  Landers'  mind  was 
not  upon  his  work.  The  vague,  uncertain  rest 
lessness  that  marked  the  birth  of  a  desire  for 
broader  things  than  he  had  known  heretofore, 
was  taking  form  in  his  brain.  He  himself  could 
not  have  told  what  he  wanted,  what  he  planned ; 
he  simply  felt  a  distaste  for  the  things  of  Now ; 
an  unrest  that  prevented  his  sitting  quiet;  that 
took  him  up  very  early  at  morning;  that  made 
him  husk  more  bushels  of  corn,  and  toss  more 
bundles  of  grain  into  the  self- feed  of  a  thresh 
ing  machine  than  any  other  man  he  knew  ;  that 
kept  him  awake  thinking  at  night  until  the  dis 
cordant  snores  of  the  family  sent  him  to  bed, 
with  the  covers  over  his  ears  in  self-defence. 

A  vague  wonder  that  such  thoughts  were  in 
his  mind  at  all  was  upon  him.  He  was  the  son 
of  his  parents;  his  life  so  far  had  been  their 
life:  why  should  he  not  be  as  content  as  they? 

He  could  not  answer,  yet  the  distaste  grew. 
Irresistibly  he  had  acquired  a  habit  of  seeing 
unpleasant  things :  the  meanness  and  the  small- 
ness  of  his  surroundings;  the  uncouth  furnish- 

[20] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

ings  of  his  home ;  the  lack  of  grace  in  his  parents 
and  acquaintances;  the  trifling  incidents  that 
required  so  many  hours  of  discussion ;  and  in  all 
things  the  absence  of  that  sense  of  humor  and 
appreciation  of  the  lighter  side  of  life  which, 
from  reading,  he  had  learned  to  recognize. 

Try  as  he  might,  he  could  not  recollect  even 
the  faint  flash  of  a  poor  pun  coming  originally 
from  his  parents.  Was  he  to  be  as  they  ?  A 
feeling  of  intense  repugnance  swept  over  him 
at  the  thought  —  a  repugnance  unaccountable, 
and  of  which  he  felt  much  ashamed. 

Self -suspicion  followed.  Was  it  well  for 
him  to  read  the  books  and  think  the  thoughts  of 
the  past  year  ?  He  could  not  escape  except  by 
brutally  tearing  himself  by  the  roots  from  his 
parents'  lives.  It  was  all  so  hopelessly  selfish 
on  his  part ! 

"True,"  answered  the  hot  spirit  of  resent 
ment,  "  but  is  it  not  right  that  you  should  think 
first  of  Self  ?  Is  not  individual  advancement 
the  first  law  of  Nature  ?  If  there  is  something 
better,  why  should  you  not  secure  it  ? " 

The  innate  spirit  of  independence,  the  in 
tense  passion  of  pride  and  equality  inborn  with 

[21] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

the  true  country-bred,  surged  warmly  through 
his  body  until  he  fairly  tingled. 

Why  should  others  have  things,  think 
thoughts,  enjoy  pleasures  of  which  he  was  to 
remain  in  ignorance  ?  The  mood  of  rebellion 
was  upon  him  and  he  swore  he  would  be  as 
they.  Of  the  best  the  world  contained,  he, 
Guy  Landers,  would  partake. 

With  the  decision  came  an  exultant  con 
sciousness  of  the  graceful  play  of  his  own 
muscles  in  rapid  action.  The  self-confidence 
of  the  splendid  animal  was  his.  He  would 
work  and  advance  himself.  The  world  must 
move,  and  he  would  help.  He  would  do  things, 
great  things,  of  which  he  and  the  world  would 
be  proud. 

Unconsciously  he  worked  faster  and  faster 
as  thought  travelled.  The  other  wagons 
dropped  behind,  the  tapping  of  corn  ears  on 
their  sideboards  making  faint  music  in  the 
clear  air. 

The  sun  rose  swiftly,  warming  and  drying 
the  earth.  Instead  of  frost  the  dust  of  weath 
ered  husks  fell  thickly  over  him.  Overflowing 
with  life  and  physical  power,  he  worked  through 

[22] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

the  long  rows  to  the  end,  then  mounted  the 
wagon  and  looked  around.  Silently  he  noted 
the  gain  over  the  other  workers,  and  a  smile  lit 
up  the  sturdy  lines  of  his  face. 

Evening  was  approaching.  The  rough  lum 
ber  wagon,  heavily  loaded  from  the  afternoon's 
work,  groaned  loudly  over  the  uneven  ground. 
Instead  of  the  east,  the  west  was  now  red, 
glorious.  High  up  in  the  sky,  surrounding  the 
glow,  a  part  of  it  as  well,  narrow  luminous 
sun-dogs  presaged  uncertain  weather  to  follow. 

Guy  Landers  mounted  the  wagon  wearily, 
and  looked  ahead.  The  end  of  the  two  loaded 
corn-rows  which  he  was  robbing  was  in  sight, 
and  he  returned  doggedly  to  his  task.  The 
ardor  of  the  morning  had  succumbed  to  the 
steady  grind  of  physical  toil,  and  he  worked 
with  the  impassive  perseverance  of  a  machine. 

Night  and  the  stillness  thereof  settled  fast. 
The  world  darkened  so  swiftly  that  the  change 
could  almost  be  distinguished.  The  rows  ahead 
grew  shadowy,  and  in  their  midst,  by  contrast, 
the  corn-ears  stood  out  white  and  distinct.  The 
whole  world  seemed  to  draw  more  closely  to 
gether.  The  low  vibrant  hum  that  marked  the 

[23] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

location  of  the  distant  threshing  crew,  sounded 
now  almost  as  near  as  the  voice  of  a  friend.  A 
flock  of  prairie-chickens  flew  low  overhead, 
their  flatly  spread  wings  cutting  the  air  with 
a  sound  like  whips.  They  settled  nearby,  and 
out  of  the  twilight  came  anon  the  confused 
murmur  of  their  voices. 

Landers  stopped  the  impatient  horses  at  the 
end  of  the  field,  and  shook  level  the  irregular, 
golden  heap  in  the  wagon-box.  Slowly  he 
drew  on  coat  and  top-coat,  and  mounted  the 
full  load,  sitting  sideways  with  legs  hanging 
over  the  bulging  wagon-box.  It  was  dark  now, 
but  he  was  not  alone.  Other  wagons  were 
groaning  homeward  as  well.  Suddenly,  thin 
and  brassy,  out  of  the  distance  came  the  sound 
of  a  steam  whistle ;  and  when  it  was  again  silent 
the  hum  of  the  thresher  had  ceased.  From  a 
field  by  the  roadside,  a  solitary  prairie-rooster 
gave  once,  twice,  its  lone,  restless  call. 

The  man  stretched  back  full  length  on  the 
corn  bed  and  looked  up  where  the  stars  sparkled 
clear  and  bright.  It  all  appealed  to  him,  and  a 
moisture  formed  in  his  eyes.  A  new  side  to  the 
problem  of  the  morning  came  to  him.  These 

[24] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

sounds — he  realized  now  how  he  loved  them. 
Verily  they  were  a  part  of  his  life.  Mid  them 
he  had  been  bred;  of  them  as  of  food  he  had 
grown.  That  whistle,  thin  and  unmusical ;  that 
elusive,  indescribable  call  of  prairie  male;  all 
these  homely  sounds  that  meant  so  much  to  him 
—  could  he  leave  them  ? 

The  moisture  in  his  eyes  deepened  and  a 
tightness  gripped  his  throat.  Slowly  two  great 
tears  fought  their  way  down  through  the  dust 
on  his  face,  and  dropped  lingeringly,  one  after 
the  other  amid  the  corn-ears. 


II 


The  little,  low,  weather-white  school-house 
stood  glaring  solitarily  in  the  bright  starlight, 
from  out  its  setting  of  brown,  hard-trodden 
prairie.  Within,  the  assembled  farmers  were 
packed  tight  and  regular  in  the  seats  and  aisles, 
like  kernels  on  an  ear  of  corn.  In  the  front 
of  the  room  a  little  space  had  been  shelled  bare 
for  the  speaker,  and  the  displaced  human  ker 
nels  thereto  incident  were  scattered  crouching 
in  the  narrow  hall  and  anteroom.  From  with- 

[25] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

out,  groups  of  men  denied  admittance,  thrust 
hairy  faces  in  at  the  open  windows.  A  row  of 
dusty,  grease-covered  lamps  flanked  by  com 
position  metal  reflectors,  concentrated  light 
upon  the  shelled  spot,  leaving  the  remainder 
of  the  room  in  variant  shadow.  The  low  mur 
mur  of  suppressed  conversation,  accompanied 
by  the  unconscious  shuffling  of  restless  feet, 
sounded  through  the  place.  Becoming  con 
stantly  more  noticeable,  an  unpleasant,  pene 
trating  odor,  of  the  unclean  human  animal 
filled  the  room. 

Guy  Landers  sat  on  a  crowded  back  seat, 
where,  leaning  one  elbow  on  his  knee,  he  shaded 
his  eyes  with  his  hand.  On  his  right  a  big, 
sweaty  farmer  was  smoking  a  stale  pipe.  The 
smell  of  the  cheap,  vile  tobacco,  bad  as  it  was, 
became  a  welcome  substitute  for  the  odor  of 
the  man  himself. 

At  his  left  were  two  boys  of  his  own  age, 
splendid,  both  of  them,  with  the  overflowing 
vitality  that  makes  all  young  animals  splendid. 
They  were  talking — of  women.  They  spoke 
low,  watching  sheepishly  whether  any  one  was 
listening,  and  snickering  suppressedly  together. 

[26] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

The  young  man's  head  dropped  in  his  hands. 
It  all  depressed  him  like  a  weight.  From  the 
depths  of  his  soul  he  despised  them  for  their 
vulgarity,  and  hated  himself  for  so  doing,  for 
he  was  of  their  life  and  work  akin.  He  shut 
his  eyes,  suffering  blindly. 

Consciousness  returned  at  the  sound  of  a 
strangely  soft  voice,  and  he  looked  up  a  little 
bewildered.  A  swarm  of  night-bugs  encircled 
each  of  the  greasy  lamps,  blindly  beating  out 
their  lives  against  the  hot  chimney;  but  save 
this  and  the  soft  voice  there  was  no  other  sound. 
The  man  at  the  right  held  his  pipe  in  his  hand; 
to  the  left  the  boys  had  ceased  whispering;  one 
and  all  were  listening  to  the  speaker  with  the 
stolid,  expressionless  gaze  of  interested  animals. 

Guy  Landers  could  not  have  told  why  he 
had  come  that  night.  Perhaps  it  was  in  response 
to  that  gregarious  instinct  which  prompts  us  all 
at  times  to  mingle  with  a  crowd;  certainly  he 
had  not  expected  to  be  interested.  Thus  it  was 
with  almost  a  feeling  of  rebellious  curiosity  that 
he  caught  himself  listening  intently. 

The  speech  was  political,  the  speaker  a 
college  man.  What  he  said  was  immaterial  — 

[27] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

not  a  listener  but  had  heard  the  same  argu 
ments  a  dozen  times  before;  it  was  the  man 
himself  that  held  them. 

What  the  farmers  in  that  dingy  little  room 
saw  was  a  smooth-faced  young  man,  with  blue 
eyes  set  far  apart  and  light  hair  that  exposed 
the  temples  far  back;  they  heard  a  soft  voice 
which  made  them  forget  for  a  time  that  they 
were  very  tired  —  forget  all  else  but  that  he 
was  speaking. 

Landers  saw  further:  not  a  single  man,  but 
a  type;  the  concrete  illustration  of  a  vague 
ideal  he  had  long  known.  He  realized  as  the 
others  did  not,  that  the  speaker  was  merely 
practising  on  them  —  training,  as  the  man  him 
self  would  have  said.  When  Landers  was 
critically  conscious,  he  was  not  deceived;  yet, 
with  this  knowledge,  at  times  he  forgot  and 
moved  along  with  the  speaker,  unconsciously. 

It  was  all  deliciously  intoxicating  to  the 
farmer — this  first  understanding  glimpse  of 
things  he  had  before  merely  dreamed  of — and 
he  waited  exultantly  for  those  brief  moments 
when  he  felt,  sympathetically  with  the  speaker, 
the  keen  joy  of  mastery  in  perfect  art;  that  joy 

[28] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

beside  which  no  other  of  earth  can  compare, 
the  compelling  magnetism  which  carries  an 
other's  mind  irresistibly  along  with  one's  own. 

The  speaker  finished  and  sat  down  wearily, 
and  almost  simultaneously  the  hairy  faces  left 
the  windows.  The  shuffling  of  feet  and  the 
murmur  of  rough  voices  once  more  sounded 
through  the  room  ;  again  the  odor  of  vile 
tobacco  filled  the  air.  Several  of  the  older  men 
gathered  around  the  speaker,  in  turn  holding 
his  hand  in  a  relentless  grip  while  they  strug 
gled  bravely  for  words  to  express  the  broadest 
of  compliments.  Young  boys  stood  wide-eyed 
under  their  fathers'  arms  and  looked  at  the 
college  man  steadily,  like  young  calves. 

The  reaction  was  on  the  slender  young 
speaker,  and  though  the  experience  was  new, 
he  shook  hands  wearily.  In  spite  of  himself  a 
shade  of  disgust  crept  into  his  face.  He  was 
not  bidding  for  these  farmers'  votes,  and  the 
big  sweaty  men  were  foully  odorous.  He 
worked  his  way  steadily  out  into  the  open  air. 

Landers,  in  response  to  a  motive  he  made  no 
attempt  to  explain  even  to  himself,  walked  over 
and  touched  the  chairman  on  the  shoulder. 

[29] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  'Evening,  Ross,"  he  greeted  perfunctorily. 
"  Pretty  good  talk,  wasn't  it  ? "  Without  wait 
ing  for  a  reply  he  went  on,  "  Suppose  you  're 
not  hankering  for  a  drive  back  to  town  to 
night  ?  I'll  see  that"  —  a  swift  nod  toward 
the  departing  group  —  "he  gets  back  home,  if 
you  wish." 

Ross  looked  up  in  pleased  surprise.  He 
was  tired  and  sleepy  and  only  too  glad  to  accept 
the  suggestion. 

"  Thank  you,  Guy,"  he  answered  gratefully. 
"  I  '11  do  as  much  for  you  some  time." 

Landers  waited  silently  until  the  last  eulogist 
had  lingeringly  departed,  leaving  the  bewil 
dered  speaker  gazing  about  for  the  chairman. 

"I'm  to  take  you  to  town,"  said  Landers, 
simply,  as  he  led  the  way  toward  his  wagon. 
He  then  added,  as  an  afterthought:  "If 
you're  tired  and  prefer,  you  may  stay  with 
me  to-night." 

The  collegian,  looking  up  to  decline,  met  the 
countryman's  eye,  and  for  the  first  time  the  two 
studied  each  other  steadily. 

"  I  will  stay  with  you,  if  you  please,"  he  said 
in  sudden  change  of  mind. 

[30] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

They  drove  out,  slowly,  into  the  frosty  night, 
the  sound  of  the  other  wagons  rattling  over 
frozen  roads  coming  pleasantly  to  their  ears. 
Overhead  countless  stars  lit  up  the  earth  and 
sky,  almost  as  brightly  as  moonlight. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  husking  corn  these  days," 
initiated  the  collegian,  perfunctorily. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  short  answer. 

They  rode  on  again  in  silence,  the  other 
wagons  rumbling  slowly  away  into  the  dis 
tance  until  their  sound  came  only  as  a  low 
humming  from  the  frozen  earth. 

"  Prices  pretty  good  this  season  ? "  questioned 
the  college  man,  tentatively. 

Landers  flashed  around  on  him  almost 
fiercely. 

"In  Heaven's  name,  man,"  he  protested, 
"give  me  credit  for  a  thought  outside  my 
work  — "  He  paused,  and  his  voice  became 
natural:  " — a  thought  such  as  other  people 
have,"  he  finished,  sadly. 

The  two  men  looked  steadily  at  each  other, 
a  multitude  of  conflicting  emotions  on  the  face 
of  the  collegian.  He  could  not  have  been  more 
surprised  had  a  clothing  dummy  raised  its 

[31] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

voice  and  spoken.  Landers  turned  away  and 
looked  out  over  the  frosty  prairie. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  —  wearily.  "You're 
not  to  blame  for  thinking  —  as  everybody  else 
thinks."  His  companion  started  to  interrupt 
but  Landers  raised  his  hand  in  silencing  motion. 
"Let  us  be  honest  —  with  ourselves,  at  least," 
he  anticipated. 

"  I  know  we  of  the  farm  are  dull,  and  crude, 
and  vulgar,  and  our  thoughts  are  of  common 
things.  You  of  the  other  world  patronize  us; 
you  practise  on  us  as  you  did  to-night,  thinking 
we  do  not  know.  But  some  of  us  do,  and  it 
hurts." 

The  other  man  impulsively  held  out  his  hand ; 
a  swift  apology  came  to  his  lips,  but  as  he  looked 
into  the  face  before  him,  he  felt  it  would  be 
better  left  unsaid.  Instead,  he  voiced  the  ques 
tion  that  came  uppermost  to  his  mind. 

"Why  don't  you  leave — this  —  and  go  to 
school  ? "  he  asked  abruptly.  "  You  have  an 
equal  chance  with  the  rest.  We  're  each  what 
we  make  ourselves." 

Landers  broke  in  on  him  quickly. 

"We  all  like  to  talk  of  equality,  but  in 

[32] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

reality  we  know  there  is  none.  You  say  *  leave ' 
without  the  slightest  knowledge  of  what  in  my 
case  it  means."  He  gave  the  collegian  a  quick 
look. 

"  I  'm  talking  as  though  I  'd  known  you  all 
my  life."  A  question  was  in  his  voice. 

"  I  'm  listening,"  said  the  man,  simply. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  it  means,  then.  It  means 
that  I  divorce  myself  from  everything  of 
Now;  that  I  unlive  my  past  life;  that  I 
leave  my  companionship  with  dumb  things  — 
horses  and  cattle  and  birds  —  and  I  love  them, 
for  they  are  natural.  This  seems  childish  to 
you;  but  live  with  them  for  years,  more  than 
with  human  beings,  and  you  will  understand. 

"More  than  all  else  it  means  that  I  must 
become  as  a  stranger  to  my  family;  and  they 
depend  upon  me.  My  friends  of  now  would 
not  be  my  friends  when  I  returned;  they 
would  be  as  I  am  to  you  now  —  a  thing  to  be 
patronized." 

He  hesitated,  and  then  went  recklessly  on: 

"  I  've  told  you  so  much,  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  everything.  On  the  next  farm  to  ours 
there's  a  little,  brown-eyed  girl — Faith's  her 

[33] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

name — and  —  and — "  His  new-found  flow 
of  words  failed,  and  he  ended  in  unconscious 
apostrophe : 

"  To  think  of  growing  out  of  her  life,  and 
strange  to  my  father  and  mother — it's  all  so 
selfish,  so  hideously  selfish  ! " 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  said  the  soft  voice 
at  his  side. 

They  drove  on  without  a  word,  the  frost- 
bound  road  ringing  under  the  horses'  feet,  the 
stars  above  smiling  sympathetic  indulgence  at 
this  last  repetition  of  the  old,  old  tale  of  man. 

The  gentle  voice  of  the  collegian  broke  the 
silence. 

"  You  say  it  would  be  selfish  to  leave.  Is  it 
not  right,  though,  and  of  necessity,  that  we 
think  first  of  self  ?"  He  paused,  then  boldly 
sounded  the  keynote  of  the  universe. 

"Is  not  selfishness  the  first  law  of  nature  ?" 
he  asked. 

Landers  opened  his  lips  to  answer,  but  closed 
them  without  a  word. 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

III 

Brown,  magnetic  Fall,  with  her  overflow  of 
animal  activity,  shaded  gradually  into  the  white 
of  lethic  Winter;  then  in  slow  dissolution  re 
linquished  supremacy  to  the  tans  and  mottled 
greens  of  Springtime.  Unsatisfied  as  man,  the 
mighty  cycle  of  the  seasons'  evolution  moved  on 
until  the  ripe  yellow  of  harvest  and  of  corn 
field  wrote  "Autumn"  on  the  broad  page  of 
the  prairies. 

Of  an  evening  in  early  September,  Guy  Lan 
ders  turned  out  from  the  uncut  grass  of  the 
farm-yard  into  the  yellow,  beaten  dust  of  the 
country  road.  He  walked  slowly,  for  it  was 
his  last  night  on  the  farm,  and  it  would  be  long 
ere  he  passed  that  way  again.  This  was  the 
road  that  led  to  the  district  school-house,  and 
with  him  every  inch  had  been  familiar  from 
childhood.  As  a  boy  he  had  run  barefoot  in  its 
yellow  dust,  and  paddled  joyously  in  the  soft 
mud  of  its  summer  showers.  The  rows  of  tall 
cottonwoods  that  bordered  it  on  either  side  he 
had  helped  plant,  watching  them  grow  year  by 
year,  as  he  himself  had  grown,  until  now  the 
whispering  of  prairie  night  winds  in  their 

[35] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

loosely  hung  leaves  spoke  a  language  as 
familiar  as  his  native  tongue. 

He  walked  down  the  road  for  a  half-mile, 
and  turned  in  between  still  other  tall  cotton- 
woods  at  another  weather-stained,  square  farm 
house,  scarcely  distinguishable  from  his  own. 

"  'Evening,  Mr.  Baker."  He  nodded  to  the 
round-shouldered  man  who  sat  smoking  on  the 
doorstep. 

The  farmer  moved  to  one  side,  making  gen 
erous  room  beside  him. 

"'Evening,  Guy,"  he  echoed.  "Won't  y' 
set  down  ? " 

"  Not  to-night,  Mr.  Baker.  I  came  over  to 
see  Faith."  He  hesitated,  then  added  as  an 
afterthought  :  "  I  go  away  to-morrow." 

The  man  on  the  steps  smoked  silently  for  a 
minute,  the  glow  from  the  corn-cob  bowl  em 
phasizing  the  gathering  twilight.  Slowly  he 
took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and,  standing 
up,  seized  the  young  man's  hand  in  the  grip  of 
a  vise. 

"  I  heerd  y'  were  goin',  Guy."  He  looked 
down  through  the  steadiest  of  mild  blue  eyes. 
"Good-bye,  my  boy."  An  uncertain  catch 

[36] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

came  into  his  voice,  and  he  shook  the  hand 
harder  than  before.  "  We  '11  all  miss  ye." 

He  dropped  his  arm,  and  sat  down  on  the 
step,  impassively  resuming  his  pipe.  Without 
raising  his  eyes,  he  nodded  toward  the  back 
yard. 

"  Faith 's  back  there  with  her  posies,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  hesitated,  swallowing  fiercely 
at  the  lump  in  his  throat. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Baker,"  he  faltered  at 
length. 

He  walked  slowly  around  the  corner  of  the 
house,  stopping  a  moment  to  pat  the  friendly 
collie  that  wagged  his  tail,  welcomingly,  in  the 
path.  A  large  mixed  orchard-garden,  sur 
rounded  by  a  row  of  sturdy  soft  maples, 
opened  up  before  him;  and,  coming  up  its 
side  path,  with  the  most  cautious  of  gingerly 
treads,  was  the  big  hired-man,  bearing  a  huge 
striped  watermelon.  He  nodded  in  passing, 
and  grinned  with  a  meaning  hospitality  on  the 
visitor. 

At  one  corner  of  the  garden  an  oblong  mound 
of  earth,  bordered  with  bright  stones  and  river- 
clam  shells,  marked  the  "  posy  "  bed.  Within 

[37] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

its  boundaries  a  collection  of  overgrown  house 
plants,  belated  pinks,  and  seeding  sweet-peas, 
fought  for  life  with  the  early  fall  frosts. 
Landers  looked  steadily  down  at  the  sorry 
little  garden.  Like  everything  else  he  had  seen 
that  night,  it  told  its  pathetic  tale  of  things  that 
had  been  but  would  be  no  more. 

As  he  looked,  a  multitude  of  homely  blos 
soms  that  he  had  plucked  in  the  past  flowered 
anew  in  his  memory.  The  mild  faces  of  violets 
and  pansies,  the  gaudy  blotches  of  phlox,  stood 
out  like  nature.  He  could  almost  smell  the 
heavy  odor  of  mignonette.  A  mist  gathered 
over  his  eyes,  and  again,  as  at  the  good-bye  of 
a  moment  ago,  the  lump  rose  chokingly  in  his 
throat. 

He  turned  away  from  the  tiny,  damaged  bed 
to  send  a  searching  look  around  the  garden. 

"  Faith  ! "  he  called  gently. 

"Faith!"— louder. 

A  soft  little  sound  caught  his  ear  from  the 
grass-plot  at  the  border.  He  started  swiftly 
toward  it,  but  stopped  half-way,  for  the  sound 
was  repeated,  and  this  time  came  distinctly  — 
a  bitter,  half-choked  sob.  With  a  motion  of 

[38] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

weariness  and  of  pain  the  man  passed  his  hand 
over  his  eyes,  then  walked  on  firmly,  his  foot 
steps  muffled  in  the  short  grass. 

A  dainty  little  figure  in  the  plainest  of  calico, 
lay  curled  up  on  the  sod  beneath  the  big  maple. 
Her  face  was  buried  in  both  arms;  her  whole 
body  trembled,  as  she  struggled  hard  against 
the  great  sobs. 

"Faith  — "  interrupted  the  man  softly, 
"Faith—" 

The  sobs  became  more  violent. 

"  Go  away,  Guy,"  pleaded  a  tearful,  muf 
fled  voice  between  the  breaks.  "Please  go 
away,  please  —  " 

The  man  knelt  swiftly  down  on  the  grass; 
irresistibly  his  arm  spread  over  the  dainty, 
trembling,  little  woman.  Then  as  suddenly  he 
drew  back  with  a  face  white  as  moonlight,  and 
a  sound  in  his  throat  that  was  almost  a  groan. 

He  knelt  a  moment  so,  then  touched  her 
shoulder  gently — as  he  would  have  touched 
earth's  most  sacred  thing. 

"Faith  —  "  he  repeated  uncertainly. 

The  girl  buried  her  head  more  deeply. 

"I  won't,  I  tell  you,"  she  cried  chokingly, 

[39] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"I  won't  — "  she  could  say  no  more.  There 
were  no  words  in  her  meagre  vocabulary  to 
voice  her  bitterness  of  heart. 

The  man  got  to  his  feet  almost  roughly,  face 
and  hands  set  like  a  lock.  He  stood  a  second 
looking  passionately  down  at  her. 

"  Good-bye,  Faith,"  he  said,  and  his  trem 
bling  voice  was  the  gentlest  of  caresses.  He 
started  swiftly  away  down  the  path. 

The  girl  listened  a  moment  to  the  retreating 
steps,  then  raised  a  tear-stained  face  above  her 
arms. 

"  Guy  ! "  she  called  chokingly,  "  Guy  ! " 

The  man  quickened  his  steps  at  the  sound, 
but  did  not  turn. 

The  girl  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"  Oh,  Guy  !  Guy  ! "  pleadingly,  desperately. 
"Guy!" 

The  man  had  reached  the  open.  With  a 
motion  that  was  almost  insane,  he  clapped  his 
hands  over  his  ears,  and  ran  blindly  down  the 
dusty  path  until  he  was  tired,  then  dropped 
hopelessly  by  the  roadside. 

Overhead   the   big   cottonwoods    whispered 

[40] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

softly  in  the  starlight,  and  a  solitary  cat-bird 
sang  its  lonely  night  song. 

The  man  flung  his  arms  around  the  big, 
friendly  tree,  and  sobbed  wildly  —  as  the  girl 
had  sobbed. 

"  Oh,  Faith  ! "  he  groaned. 

IV 

A  month  had  passed  by,  bringing  to  Guy 
Landers  a  new  Heaven  and  a  new  earth.  Al 
ready  the  prosy  old  university  town  had  begun 
to  assume  an  atmosphere  of  home.  The  well- 
clipped  campus,  with  its  huge  oaks  and  its 
limestone  walks,  had  taken  on  the  familiar 
possessive  plural  "our  campus,"  and  the  soli 
tary  red  squirrel  which  sported  fearlessly  in  its 
midst  had  likewise  become  "  our  squirrel."  The 
imposing,  dignified  college  buildings  had 
ceased  to  elicit  open-mouthed  observance,  and 
among  the  student -body  surnames  had  yielded 
precedence  to  Christian  names  —  oftener, 
though,  to  some  outlandish  sobriquet  which 
satirized  an  idiosyncrasy  of  temperament  or  out 
ward  aspect. 

[411 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Meantime  the  farmer  had  learned  many 
things.  Prominent  among  these  was  a  con 
ception  of  the  preponderant  amount  he  had  yet 
to  learn.  Another  matter  of  illumination  in 
volved  the  relation  of  clothes  to  man.  He  had 
been  reared  in  the  delusion  that  the  person  who 
gave  thought  to  that  which  he  wore,  must  nec 
essarily  think  of  nothing  else.  Very  confusing, 
therefore,  was  the  experience  of  having  repre 
sentatives  of  this  same  class  immeasurably  out 
distance  him  in  the  quiz  room. 

Again,  on  the  athletic  field  he  saw  men  of 
much  lighter  weight  excel  him  in  a  way  that 
made  his  face  burn  with  a  redness  not  of  phys 
ical  exertion.  It  was  a  wholesome  lesson  that  he 
was  learning  —  that  there  are  everywhere  scores 
of  others,  equally  or  better  fitted  by  Nature  for 
the  struggle  of  life  than  oneself,  and  who  can 
only  be  surpassed  by  the  indomitable  applica 
tion  and  determination  that  wins  all  things. 

Landers'  nature  though  was  that  of  the  born 
combatant.  The  class  that  laughed  openly  at 
his  first  tremblingly  bashful,  and  ludicrously 
inapt  answer  at  quiz,  was  indelibly  photo 
graphed  upon  his  memory. 

[42] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"Before  this  session  is  complete  —  "  he  chal 
lenged  softly  to  himself,  and  glared  at  those 
members  nearest  him  in  a  way  that  made  them 
suddenly  forget  the  humor  of  the  situation. 

But  youth  is  ever  tractable,  and  even  this 
short  time  had  accomplished  much.  Already 
the  warm,  contagious,  college  comradeship  pos 
sessed  him.  Violent  attacks  of  homesickness 
that  made  gray  the  brightest  fall  days,  like 
the  callous  spots  on  his  palms,  were  becoming 
more  rare.  The  old  existence  was  already  a 
dream,  as  yet  a  little  sad,  but  none  the  less  a 
thing  without  a  substance.  The  new  life  was 
a  warm,  magnetic  reality;  the  future  glowed 
bright  with  limitless  promise. 

"The  first  day  of  the  second  month,"  re 
marked  Landers,  meeting  a  fellow-classman 
on  the  way  to  college  hall  one  morning. 

"Yes,  an  auspicious  time  to  quit  —  this," 
completed  the  student  with  a  suggestive  shuffle 
of  his  feet.  "We've  furnished  our  share  of 
amusement." 

Landers  looked  up  questioningly. . 

"  Is  that  from  the  class  president  ? "  he  asked. 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other,  "hadn't  you 
heard  ?  No  more  dancing,  '  his  nibs '  says." 

They  had  reached  the  entrance  to  the  big 
college  building,  and  at  that  moment  a  great 
roar  of  voices  sounded  from  out  the  second- 
floor  windows.  Simultaneously  the  two  fresh 
men  quickened  their  pace. 

"The  fun's  on,"  commented  Landers'  in 
formant  excitedly,  as  together  they  broke  for 
the  lecture-room,  two  stairs  at  the  jump. 

The  large  department  amphitheatre  opened 
up  like  a  fan  —  the  handle  in  the  centre  of  the 
building  on  the  entrance  floor,  the  spread  edge, 
nearly  a  complete  half -circle,  marked  by  the 
boundary  walls  of  the  building,  a  full  story 
higher.  The  intervening  space,  at  an  inclina 
tion  of  thirty  odd  degrees,  was  a  field  of 
seats,  cut  into  three  equal  parts  by  two  aisles 
that  ran  from  the  entrance,  divergently  up 
ward.  The  small  space  at  the  entrance  —  popu 
larly  dubbed  "the  pit"  —  was  professordom's 
own  particular  region.  From  this  point,  by  an 
unwritten  law,  the  classes  ranged  themselves 
according  to  the  length  of  their  university  life ; 
the  seniors  at  the  extreme  apex  of  the  angle,  the 

[44] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

other  classes  respectively  above,  leaving  the 
freshmen  far  beyond  in  space. 

As  guardians  of  the  two  narrow  aisles,  the 
seniors  dealt  lightly  with  juniors  and  "  sophs," 
but  demanded  insatiable  toll  of  every  freshman 
before  he  was  allowed  to  ascend. 

That  a  first-year  man  must  dance  was  irre 
vocable.  It  had  the  authority  of  precedent  in 
uncounted  graduate  classes.  To  be  sure,  it  was 
neither  required  nor  expected  that  all  applicants 
be  masters  of  the  art;  but,  agitate  his  feet  in 
some  manner,  every  able-bodied  male  member 
must,  or  remain  forever  a  freshman. 

When  Landers  and  his  companion  arrived  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs  they  found  the  hall  packed 
close  with  fellow-classmates.  The  lower  rows 
of  seats  were  already  filled  with  triumphant 
seniors,  waiting  for  the  throng  that  crowded 
pit  and  lobby  to  come  within  their  reach.  With 
regular  tapping  of  feet  and  clapping  of  hands 
in  unison,  the  class  as  one  man  beat  the  steady 
time  of  one  who  marches. 

"Dance,  freshies!"  they  repeated  monoto 
nously.  "  Dance  ! " 

"  Clear  the  pit  for  a  rush,"  yelled  the  presi- 

[45] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

dent  of  the  besieging  freshmen,  elbowing  his 
way  back  into  the  mass. 

A  lull  fell  upon  the  room,  as  both  sides  gath 
ered  themselves  together. 

"Now — all  at  once  !"  yelled  the  president, 
and  pandemonium  broke  loose. 

"  Rush  'em  !  Shove,  behind  there  ! "  shrieked 
the  struggling  freshmen  at  the  front. 

"  Dance,  freshies  !  Dance  ! "  challenged  the 
seniors,  as  they  locked  arms  across  the  narrow 
aisle. 

"Hold  'em,  fellows!  Hold  'em!"  en 
couraged  the  men  of  the  upper  seats,  bracing 
themselves  against  the  broad  backs  below. 

The  classes  met  like  water  against  a  wall.  To 
go  up  was  impossible ;  advantage  of  gravity  and 
of  position  was  all  with  the  seniors.  For  an 
instant,  at  the  centre,  there  were  frantic  yelling 
and  pulling  of  loose  wearing  apparel;  then, 
packed  like  cotton  in  a  bale,  they  could  only 
scream  for  mercy. 

"  Loosen  up,  back  there  !  Back  ! "  they 
panted,  squirming  impotently  as  they  gasped 
for  breath. 

Slowly  the  reaction  came  amid  the  trium- 

[46] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

phant,  "  Dance,  freshies  ! "  of  the  conquering 
hosts. 

The  jam  loosened;  the  seniors'  opportunity 
came.  Like  a  big  machine,  the  occupants  of 
the  front  row  leaned  forward,  and  seized  upon 
a  circle  of  unsuspecting,  retreating  freshmen, 
among  the  number  the  class  president. 

"  Pass  'em  up  !  Pass  'em  up  ! "  insisted  the 
men  above,  reaching  out  eager  hands  to  aid; 
and  with  an  irresistibility  that  seemed  miracu 
lous,  the  squirming,  kicking,  struggling  fresh 
men  found  themselves  rolling  upward — head 
foremost,  feet  foremost,  position  unclassified  — 
over  the  heads  of  the  upper  classmen;  bumping 
against  seats,  and  scattering  the  contents  of 
their  pockets  loosely  along  the  way. 

"Up  with  them,"  repeated  the  denizens  of 
the  front  row  as  they  reached  forward  for  a 
fresh  supply. 

But  there  was  no  more  material  available ;  the 
besieging  party  had  retreated.  On  the  top  row 
the  dishevelled  president  was  confusedly  pull 
ing  himself  together,  and  grinning  sheepishly. 
The  rebellion  was  over. 

"  Dance,  freshies,"  resumed  the  seniors  mock- 
[47] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

ingly ;  and  once  more  the  regular  tap  of  feet  and 
clapping  of  hands  beat  slow  march-time. 

One  by  one  the  freshmen  came  forward,  and, 
shuffling  a  few  steps  to  the  encouraging  "  well 
done  "  of  the  seniors,  mounted  the  steps  between 
the  rows  of  laughing  upper  classmen. 

It  happened  that  Landers  came  last.  He 
wore  heavy  shoes  and  walked  with  an  undeni 
able  clump. 

"  He 's  Dutch,  make  him  clog,"  called  a  man 
from  an  upper  row. 

The  class  caught  the  cry.  "  Clog  !  Clog  ! " 
they  commanded. 

A  big  fellow  next  the  aisle  made  an  addition. 
"  Clog  there,  hayseed,"  he  grumbled. 

Landers  stopped  as  though  the  words  were 
a  blow.  That  one  word  "  hayseed  "  with  all  that 
it  meant  to  him  —  to  be  thrown  at  him  now, 
tauntingly,  before  the  whole  class  !  His  face 
grew  white  beneath  the  remaining  coat  of  tan, 
and  he  stepped  up  to  the  big  senior  with  a 
swiftness  of  which  no  one  would  have  suspected 
him  capable. 

"  Take  that  back  ! "  he  blazed  into  the  man's 
face. 

[48] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

The  senior  hesitated;  the  room  grew  breath 
lessly  quiet. 

"Take  it  back,  I  say!" 

The  big  fellow  tried  to  laugh,  but  his  voice 
only  grated. 

"Damned  if  I  will — hayseed,"  he  retorted 
with  a  meaning  pause  and  accent. 

Before  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth 
Landers  had  the  man  by  the  collar,  and  they 
were  fighting  like  cats. 

For  a  time  things  in  that  pit  were  very  con 
fused  and  very  noisy.  Both  students  were  big 
and  both  were  furiously  angry.  By  rule  they 
would  have  been  very  evenly  matched,  but  in  a 
rough-and-tumble  scrimmage  there  was  no  com 
parison.  The  classes  made  silent  and  neutral 
spectators,  as  Landers  swung  the  man  around 
in  the  narrow  pit  like  a  whirlwind,  and  finally 
pushed  him  back  into  his  seat. 

"  Now  will  you  take  it  back  ! "  he  roared 
breathlessly,  vigorously  shaking  his  victim. 

The  hot  lust  of  battle  was  upon  the  farmer, 
and  he  forgot  that  several  hundred  students 
were  watching  his  every  motion. 

[49] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"Take  it  back,"  he  repeated,  "or  I'll— " 
and  he  lifted  the  man  half  out  of  the  seat. 

The  senior  seized  both  arms  of  the  chair,  and 
looked  up  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way. 

"I  —  "  he  began  weakly. 

"Louder — "  interrupted  Landers. 

"I  —  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  reluctant, 
trembling  voice. 

That  instant  the  amphitheatre  went  wild. 
"Bravo!"  yelled  a  hundred  voices  over  the 
clamor  of  cheering  hands. 

"  Three  cheers  for  the  freshman  ! "  shrilled  a 
voice  over  the  tumult;  and  the  "rah,  rah,  rah" 
that  followed  made  the  skylight  rattle. 

Landers  stepped  back  and  looked  up  bewil 
dered;  then  a  realization  of  the  thing  came  to 
him  and  his  face  burned  as  no  sun  could  make 
it  burn,  and  his  knees  grew  weak.  He  gladly 
would  have  given  all  his  present  earthly  belong 
ings,  and  all  in  prospect  for  the  immediate 
future  for  a  kindly  earth  to  open  suddenly  and 
swallow  him.  Perspiration  stood  out  on  his 
face  as  he  went  slowly  up  the  stairs,  at  every 
step  a  row  of  friendly  hands  grasping  him  in 
congratulation. 

[50] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Slowly  the  room  became  quiet.  The  whole 
confusion  had  not  taken  up  even  the  time  of 
grace  at  the  beginning  of  the  hour;  and  a  great 
burst  of  applause  greeted  the  mild  old  dean  as 
he  came  absently  in,  as  was  his  wont,  at  the  tap 
of  the  ten-minute  bell.  He  looked  up  inno 
cently  at  the  unusual  greeting,  and  the  cheer 
was  repeated  with  interest.  As  first  in  authority 
he  was  supposed  to  report  all  such  inter-class 
offences;  but  in  effect  he  invariably  happened 
to  be  conveniently  absent  at  such  times — the 
times  of  the  freshman  rebellion.  He  began 
lecturing  now  without  a  word  of  comment,  and 
on  the  instant  the  peaceful  scratching  of  foun 
tain  pens  on  notebooks  replaced  the  clamors 
of  war. 

The  lecture  was  about  half  over  when  there 
was  a  tap  on  the  entrance  door;  and  the  white- 
haired  dean,  answering,  stepped  out  into  the 
hall.  In  a  second  he  returned  carrying  a  thin, 
yellow  envelope. 

"A  message  for  — ,"  he  studied  the  writing 
with  near-sighted  eyes,  "  —  for  Guy  Land 
ers,"  he  announced  slowly. 

The  message  went  up  the  incline,  hand  over 

[51] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

hand  toward  the  top  row,  and  the  boy  who 
waited  felt  the  room  growing  gradually  close 
and  dark.  To  him  a  telegram  could  mean  but 
one  thing. 

The  class  sat  watching  silently  until  they 
saw  him  take  the  paper  from  his  neighbor;  then 
in  kindness  they  turned  away  at  the  look  on 
his  face.  In  the  pit  below  the  mild  old  dean 
began  talking  absently. 

Landers  tried  to  open  the  envelope,  but  his 
nervous  hands  rebelled.  He  laid  the  broad 
side  firmly  against  his  knee  and  tore  open  the 
end  raggedly,  drawing  out  the  inclosed  sheet 
with  a  trembling  rustle  that  could  be  heard  all 
over  the  room. 

The  open  page  was  before  him;  but  the 
letters  only  danced  before  his  eyes.  He  spread 
the  paper  as  before,  flat  upon  his  knee,  ere  he 
could  read. 

The  one  short  line,  the  line  of  which  every 
word  was  as  he  expected,  stood  clear  before 
him.  He  felt  now  a  vague  sort  of  wonder  that 
the  brief,  picked  sentences  should  have  affected 
him  as  they  had.  He  had  already  known  what 
they  told  for  so  long — ever  since  his  name  was 

[52] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

spoken  at  the  door  —  ages  ago.  He  looked 
hesitatingly  around  the  room.  Several  students 
were  scrutinizing  him  curiously,  as  though  ex 
pecting  something.  Oh,  yes  —  that  recalled 
him.  He  must  go  —  home.  He  hated  to  in 
terrupt  the  lecture,  but  he  must.  He  got  up 
unsteadily,  and  started  down  the  stair,  groping 
his  way  uncertainly,  as  a  man  walks  in  the 
dark. 

The  kind  old  dean  waited  in  silence  until 
Landers  had  passed  hesitatingly  through  the 
door;  then  followed  him  out  into  the  hall.  A 
moment,  and  he  returned,  standing  abstract 
edly  by  the  lecture  table.  He  picked  up  his 
scattered  notes  absently,  shaking  the  ends  even 
with  a  painstaking  hand;  then  as  carefully 
scattered  them  as  before.  He  looked  up  at  the 
silent,  waiting  class,  and  those  who  were  near 
saw  the  tears  sparkling  in  the  mild  old  eyes. 

"  Landers'  father  is  dead,"  came  the  simple, 
hushed  announcement. 

V 

The  bright  afternoon  sun  of  late  October 
shone  slantingly  on  the  train  of  weathered 

[53] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

wagons  that  stretched  out  like  an  uncoiling 
spring  from  the  group  collected  in  front  of 
the  little  farm-house.  From  near  and  afar  the 
neighbors  had  gathered;  and  now,  falling 
slowly  into  line,  they  formed  a  chain  a  full 
quarter-mile  in  length. 

Guy  Landers  was  glad  that  at  last  it  was 
over  and  they  were  out  in  the  sunshine  once 
more.  He  turned  into  the  carefully  reserved 
place  at  the  head  of  the  procession  with  almost 
a  sense  of  relief.  He  was  tired,  fiercely  tired, 
of  the  well-meant  but  insistent  pity  which 
dogged  him  with  a  tenacity  that  drove  him 
desperate.  They  would  not  even  allow  him  to 
think. 

He  rode  alone  on  the  front  seat  of  the  open 
wagon.  Behind  him,  his  mother  and  Jim  sat 
stiffly,  hand  in  hand.  They  gazed  dully  at  the 
black  thing  ahead,  and  sobbed  softly,  now 
singly,  now  together.  Both  —  himself  as  well 
—  were  dressed  in  complete  black;  old  musty 
black,  gotten  out  of  the  dark,  hurriedly,  and 
with  the  close  smell  of  the  closet  still  upon  it. 
Even  the  horses  conformed  to  the  sober  shade. 

[54] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

They  had  been  supplied  by  a  neighbor  on 
account  of  their  sombre  color. 

A  heavy  black  tassel  swung  back  and  forth 
with  the  motion  of  the  uneven  road  just  ahead 
of  the  horses'  heads,  and  Landers  sat  watching 
it  idly.  He  even  caught  himself  counting  the 
vibrations,  as  though  it  were  a  pendulum,  di 
viding  the  beats  into  minutes.  Very  slow  time 
it  was;  but  somehow  it  did  not  surprise  him. 
It  all  conformed  so  perfectly  with  the  brown, 
quiet  prairie,  and  the  sun  shining,  slanting  and 
sleepy. 

The  swinging  tassel  grew  indistinct,  and  the 
patter,,  patter,  patter  of  the  teams  behind  came 
as  from  a  distance.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  the 
events  of  the  past  two  days  drifted  through 
his  mind.  Already  they  seemed  indistinct,  as 
a  dream.  He  wondered  dully  that  they  could 
be  true  and  yet  seem  so  foreign  to  his  life,  now. 
He  even  began  to  doubt  their  verity,  and  opened 
his  eyes  slowly,  half  expecting  to  see  the  cool, 
green  campus,  and  the  big  college  buildings. 
The  slanting  sunlight  met  him  full  in  the  face, 
and  the  black  pendant  swung  monotonously, 

[55] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

from  side  to  side,  as  before.    He  wearily  closed 
his  eyes  again. 

Only  two  days  since  he  had  heard  the  taunt 
ing  "Dance,  freshy  !"  of  the  seniors,  and  felt 
the  mighty  rush  of  the  freshman  hosts;  since 
the  "  rah,  rah,  rah,  Landers  ! "  had  shook  the 
old  amphitheatre  and  the  dozens  of  welcoming 
hands  had  greeted  him;  and  then  —  the  dark 
ness  —  the  hesitating  leave-taking  of  the  build 
ing,  and  the  lingering  walk  across  the  deserted 
campus  toward  his  room — the  walk  he  knew  so 
well  he  would  take  no  more.  A  brief  time  of 
waiting — a  blank  —  and  then  the  bitter,  thump 
ing  ride  across  two  States  toward  his  home, 
when  he  could  only  think,  and  think,  and  try 
to  adjust  himself — and  fail;  and  at  last  the 
end.  And  again,  at  the  little  station,  when  he 
felt  the  touch  of  his  mother's  hand,  and  heard 
her  choking  "Guy,  my  boy  — "  that  spoke  so 
much  of  love  and  of  trust;  when  he  heard  his 
own  voice  answering  cheerily,  with  a  firmness 
which  surprised  him  even  then,  speaking  that 
which  all  through  the  long  ride  he  had  known 
he  must  speak  —  but  could  not:  "  It 's  all  right, 
mother;  don't  worry;  I'll  not  leave  you 

[561 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

again!"  —  it  all  came  back  to  him  now,  and 
he  lived  it  over  again  and  again. 

The  big,  black  tassel  danced  tantalizingly 
in  front  of  him.  Yes,  he  had  said  that  he  would 
never  leave  again.  He  dully  repeated  the  words 
now  to  himself:  "never  again."  It  was  so  fit 
ting;  quite  in  accordance  with  the  rest  of  the 
black  pageant.  His  dream  of  life,  his  new- felt 
ambitions  —  all  were  dead,  dead,  like  his  father 
before  him,  where  the  black  plume  nodded. 

They  passed  up  through  the  little  town  and 
the  shop-keepers  came  out  to  look.  Some  were 
in  their  shirt  sleeves;  the  butcher  had  his  white 
apron  tucked  up  around  his  belt.  They  gathered 
together  in  twos  and  groups,  nodding  toward 
the  procession,  their  lips  moving  as  in  panto 
mime.  One  man  walked  out  to  the  crossing, 
counting  aloud  as  the  teams  went  by.  "  One, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  six  —  "  he  intoned.  To 
him  it  was  all  a  thing  to  amuse,  like  a  circus 
parade, —  interesting  in  proportion  to  its 
length. 

Landers  looked  almost  curiously  at  the  stolid 
shopmen.  It  required  no  flush  of  inspiration 
to  tell  him  that  but  a  few  years  of  this  life  were 

[57] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

necessary  to  make  him  as  impassive  as  they. 
He  who  had  sworn  to  make  the  world  move 
would  be  contentedly  sitting  on  an  empty  goods 
box,  diligently  numbering  a  passing  procession  ! 
The  biting  humor  of  the  thought  appealed 
to  him.  He  smiled  grimly  to  himself. 

VI 

Once  more  on  an  early  evening,  a  man  turned 
out  from  a  weather-stained  prairie  farm-house, 
through  the  frosted  grass,  arriving  presently 
at  the  dusty  public  road.  As  before,  he  walked 
slowly  along  between  the  tall  cotton  woods ;  but 
not,  as  on  a  memorable  former  occasion,  be 
cause  it  would  be  for  the  last  time.  He  was 
tired,  tired  with  that  absolute  abandon  of  youth 
that  sees  no  hope  in  the  future,  and  has  no 
philosophy  to  support  it.  Only  thirty  odd  days 
since  he  went  that  way  before  !  That  many 
years  would  not  add  more  to  his  life  in  the 
future. 

Unconsciously  he  searched  along  the  way  for 
the  landmarks  he  had  watched  with  so  much 
interest  the  past  summer.  He  found  the  nest 

[58] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

where  the  quail  had  reared  their  brood,  empty 
now,  and  covered  thick  with  the  scattered  dust 
of  passing  teams.  Forgetful  that  he  was  weary 
he  climbed  well  up  the  bole  of  a  shaggy  old 
friend,  to  peep  in  at  the  opening  of  a  deserted 
woodpecker's  home.  He  came  to  the  big  tree 
at  whose  roots,  on  that  other  night  he  remem 
bered  so  well,  he  had  thrown  himself  hope 
lessly.  With  a  stolid  sort  of  curiosity  he  looked 
down  at  the  spot.  Yes,  there  was  the  place.  A 
few  fallen  leaves  were  scattered  upon  the  earth 
where  his  body  had  pressed  tightly  against  the 
tree-trunk,  and  there  were  the  hollows  where 
his  clenched  hands  had  found  hold.  A  dull 
rebellion  crept  over  him  as  he  looked.  It  had 
been  needless  to  torture  him  so  ! 

He  came  in  sight  of  the  familiar  little  farm 
house  and  turned  in  slowly  at  the  break  between 
the  trees.  It  was  growing  dark  now,  but  the 
odor  of  tobacco  was  on  the  air,  and  looking 
closely,  he  could  catch  the  gleam  from  a  glow 
ing  pipe-bowl  in  the  doorway.  He  passed  his 
hand  across  his  brow,  almost  doubting — it  was 
all  so  like — before  — 

A  light  step  came  tapping  quickly  down  the 

[59] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

pathway  toward  him.  "  Guy  ! "  a  voice  called 
softly.  "  Guy,  is  that  you  ? " 

The  voice  was  quite  near  him  now,  and  he 
stopped  short,  a  big  maple  above  him. 

"Yes,  Faith." 

She  came  up  close,  peering  into  the  shadow. 

"Guy — "  she  repeated,  "Guy,  where  are 
you?"  ' 

He  reached  out  and  clasped  her  hand;  then 
again,  and  took  both  hands.  Her  breath  came 
quickly.  Slowly  his  arm  slipped  about  her 
waist,  she  struggling  a  little  against  her  own 
will;  then  her  head  fell  forward  on  his  breast, 
and  he  could  feel  her  whole  body  tremble. 

The  man  looked  out  through  the  rifts  in  the 
half -naked  trees;  into  the  sky,  clear  and  spark 
ling  beyond;  on  his  face  an  expression  of 
sadness,  of  joy,  of  abandon  —  all  blended  in 
describably. 

Two  soft  arms  crept  gently  about  his  neck, 
and  a  mass  of  fluffy  hair  caressed  his  face. 

"Oh!  Guy!  Guy!"  sobbed  the  girl,  "it's 
wicked,  I  know,  but  I  'm  so  glad — so  glad  —  " 


[60] 


THE  DOMINANT  IMPULSE 


/PALMAR  BYE  was  a  writer.  That  is 
^^  to  say,  writing  was  his  vocation  and  his 
recreation  as  well. 

As  yet,  unfortunately,  he  had  been  unable 
to  find  publishers;  but  for  that  deficiency  no 
reasonable  person  could  hold  him  responsible. 
He  had  tried  them  all  —  and  repeatedly.  A 
certain  expressman  now  smiled  when  he  saw 
the  long,  slim  figure  approaching  with  a  pack 
age  under  his  arm,  which  from  frequent  reap 
pearances  had  become  easily  recognizable;  but 
as  a  person  becomes  accustomed  to  a  physical 
deformity,  Calmar  Bye  had  ceased  to  notice 
banter. 

Of  but  one  thing  in  his  life  he  was  positively 
certain;  and  that  was  if  Nature  had  fashioned 
him  for  any  purpose  in  particular,  it  was  to  do 
the  very  thing  he  was  doing  now.  The  reason  for 

[61] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

this  certainty  was  that  he  could  do  nothing  else 
with  even  moderate  satisfaction.  He  had  tried, 
frequently,  to  break  away,  and  had  even  suc 
ceeded  for  a  month  at  a  time  in  an  endeavor 
to  avoid  writing  a  word;  but  inevitably  there 
came  a  relapse  and  a  more  desperate  debauch 
in  literature.  Try  as  he  might  he  could  not 
avoid  the  temptation.  An  incident,  a  trifle  out 
of  the  ordinary  in  his  commonplace  life,  a 
sudden  thrill  at  the  reading  of  another  man's 
story,  a  night  of  insomnia,  and  resolution  was 
in  tatters,  and  shortly  thereafter  Calmar  Bye's 
pencil  would  be  coursing  with  redoubled  vigor 
over  a  sheet  of  virgin  paper. 

To  be  sure,  Calmar  did  other  things  besides 
write.  Being  a  normal  man  with  a  normal  ap 
petite,  he  could  not  successfully  evade  the 
demands  of  animal  existence,  and  when  his 
finances  became  unbearably  low,  he  would  pro 
ceed  to  their  improvement  by  whatever  means 
came  first  to  hand.  Book-keeping,  clerical 
work,  stenography — anything  was  grist  for  his 
mill  at  such  times,  and  for  a  period  he  would 
work  without  rest.  No  better  assistant  could 
be  found  anywhere  —  until  he  had  satisfied  his 

[62] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

few  creditors  and  established  a  small  surplus 
of  his  own.  Then,  presto,  change  !  —  and  on  the 
surface  reappeared  Bye,  the  long,  slender, 
blue-eyed,  dreaming,  dawdling,  irresponsible 
writer. 

Being  what  he  was,  the  tenor  of  Calmar's 
life  was  markedly  uneven.  At  times  the  lust 
to  write,  the  spirit  of  inspiration,  as  he  would 
have  explained  to  himself  in  the  privacy  of  his 
own  study,  would  come  upon  him  strong,  and 
for  hours  or  days  life  would  be  a  joyous  thing, 
his  fellow-men  dear  brothers  of  a  happy  family, 
the  obvious  unhappiness  and  injustice  about 
him  not  reality,  but  mere  comedy  being  enacted 
for  his  particular  delectation. 

Then  at  last,  his  work  finished,  would 
come  inevitable  reaction.  The  product  of  his 
hand  and  brain,  completed,  seemed  inadequate 
and  commonplace.  He  would  smile  grimly  as 
with  dogged  persistence  he  started  this  latest 
child  of  his  fancy  out  along  the  trail  so  thickly 
bestrewn  with  the  skeletons  of  elder  offspring. 
In  measure,  as  badinage  had  previously  passed 
him  harmlessly  by,  it  now  cut  deeply.  No  one 
in  the  entire  town  thought  him  a  more  complete 

[63] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

failure  than  he  considered  himself.  Skies,  from 
being  sunny,  grew  suddenly  sodden;  not  a  tene 
ment  or  alley  but  thrust  obtrusively  forward 
its  tale  of  misery. 

"Think  of  me,"  he  confided  to  his  friend 
Bob  Wilson  one  evening  as  during  his  transit 
through  a  particularly  dismal  slough  of  despond 
they  in  company  were  busily  engaged  in  blazing 
the  trail  with  empty  bottles;  "One  such  as  I, 
a  man  of  thirty  and  of  good  health,  without  a 
dollar  or  the  prospect  of  a  dollar,  an  income  or 
the  prospect  of  an  income,  a  home  or  the  pros 
pect  of  a  home,  following  a  cold  scent  like  the 
one  I  am  now  on  ! "  He  snapped  his  finger 
against  the  rim  of  his  thin  drinking  glass  until 
it  rang  merrily. 

"  The  idea,  again,  of  a  man  such  as  I,  un- 
travelled,  penniless,  self-educated,  thinking  to 
compete  with  others  who  journey  the  world 
over  to  secure  material,  and  who  have  spent  a 
fortune  in  preparation  for  this  particular 
work."  He  excitedly  drained  the  contents  of 
the  glass. 

"  It 's  preposterous,  childlike  ! " — he  brought 
the  frail  trifle  down  to  the  table  with  an  em- 

[64] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

phasis  which  was  all  but  its  destruction  —  "im 
becile  !  I  tell  you  I  'm  going  to  quit. 

"  Quit  for  good,"  he  repeated  at  the  expres 
sion  on  the  other's  face. 

Bob  Wilson  scrutinized  his  companion  with 
a  critical  eye. 

"  Waiter,"  he  said,  speaking  over  his  shoul 
der,  "waiter,  kindly  tax  our  credit  further  to 
the  extent  of  a  couple  of  Havanas." 

"Yes,  sah,"  acknowledged  the  waiter. 

Silence  fell;  but  Bob's  observation  of  his 
friend  continued. 

"  So  you  are  going  to  quit  the  fight  ? "  he 
commented  at  last 

"I  am,"  — decidedly. 

Wilson  lit  his  cigar. 

"You  have  completed  that  latest — produc 
tion  on  which  you  were  engaged,  I  suppose  ? " 

The  writer  scratched  a  match. 

"This  afternoon." 

"And  sent  it  on?" 

A  nod.    "  Yes,  on  to  the  furnace  room." 

A  smile  which  approached  a  grin  formed 
over  Bob's  big  face. 

"  You  have  hope  of  its  acceptance,  I  trust  ? " 

[65] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Calmar  Bye  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  far 
toward  the  ceiling,  and  the  smile,  a  shade  grim, 
was  reflected. 

"More  than  hope,"  laconically.  "I  have 
certainty  at  last." 

Another  pause  followed  and  slowly  the  smile 
vanished  from  the  faces  of  both. 

"Bob,"  and  the  long  Calmar  straightened 
in  his  chair,  "  I  Ve  been  an  ass.  It 's  all  ap 
parent,  too  apparent,  now.  I  Ve  tried  to  com 
pete  with  the  entire  world,  and  I  'm  too  small. 
It 's  enough  for  me  to  work  against  local  com 
petition."  He  meditatively  flicked  the  ash 
from  his  cigar  with  his  little  finger. 

"  I  realize  that  a  lot  of  my  friends  —  women 
friends  particularly  —  will  say  they  always 
knew  I  had  no  determination,  wouldn't  stay 
in  the  game  until  I  won.  They  're  all  alike  in 
this  one  particular,  Bob;  all  sticklers  for  the 
big  lower  jaw. 

"  But  I  don't  care.  I  Ve  been  shooting  into 
a  covey  of  publishers  for  twelve  years  and  never 
have  touched  a  feather.  Perseverance  is  a  good 
quality,  but  there  is  such  a  thing  as  insanity." 

[661 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

He  stared  unconsciously  at  the  portieres  of  the 
booth. 

"  Once  and  for  all,  I  tell  you  I  'm  through," 
he  repeated. 

"  What  are  you  going  at  ? "  queried  Bob, 
sympathetically,  a  shade  quizzically. 

The  long  Calmar  reached  into  his  pocket  with 
deliberation. 

"  Read  that."  He  tossed  a  letter  across  the 
tiny  table. 

Bob  poised  the  epistle  in  his  hand  gingerly. 

"  South  Dakota,"  he  commented,  as  he  ob 
served  the  postmark.  "  Humph,  I  can't  make 
out  the  town." 

"  It  's  not  a  town  at  all,  only  a  postoffice. 
Immaterial  anyway,"  explained  Calmar,  irri 
tably. 

The  round-faced  man  unfolded  the  letter 
slowly  and  read  aloud :  — 

"My  DEAR  SIR:  — 

*  Your  request,  coming  from  a  stranger,  is 
rather  unusual ;  but  if  you  really  mean  busi 
ness,  I  will  say  this:  Provided  you're  willing 
to  take  hold  and  stay  right  with  me,  I  '11  take 

[67] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

you  in  and  at  the  end  of  a  half-year  pay  $75.00 
per  month.  You  can  then  put  into  the  common 
fund  whatever  part  of  your  savings  you  wish 
and  have  a  proportionate  interest  in  the  herd. 
Permit  me  to  observe,  however,  that  you  will 
find  your  surroundings  somewhat  different 
from  those  amid  which  you  are  living  at  present, 
and  I  should  advise  you  to  consider  carefully 
before  you  make  the  change. 

"  Very  truly  yours, 

"  E.  J.  DOUGLASS." 

Bob  slowly  folded  the  sheet,  and  tossed  it 
back. 

"  In  what  particular  portion  of  that  desert, 
if  I  may  ask,  does  your  new  employer  reside  ?  " 
There  was  uncertainty  in  the  speaker's  voice, 
as  of  one  who  spoke  of  India  or  the  islands  of 
the  Pacific.  "  Likewise  —  pardon  my  ignorance 
—  is  that  herd  he  mentions  —  buffalo  ?  " 

Calmar  imperturbably  returned  the  letter  to 
his  pocket. 

"  I  'm  serious,  Robert.  Douglass  is  a  cattle 
man  west  of  the  river." 

"The  river!"   apostrophized  Bob.     "The 

[68] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

man  juggles  with  mysteries.  What  river, 
pray  ?  " 

"  The  Missouri,  of  course.  Didn't  you  ever 
study  geography  ? " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  in  humble  apology. 
"Is  that,"  vaguely,  "what  they  call  the  Bad 
Lands?" 

Bye  looked  across  at  his  friend,  of  a  mind  to 
be  indignant;  then  his  good-nature  triumphed. 

"  No,  it 's  not  so  bad  as  that,"  with  a  feeble 
attempt  at  a  pun.  He  paused  to  light  a  cigar, 
and  absent-minded  as  usual,  continued  in  di 
gression. 

"  I  Ve  dangled  long  enough,  old  man ;  too 
long.  I  'm  going  to  do  something  now.  I  start 
to-morrow." 

Bob  Wilson  the  skeptic,  looked  at  his  friend 
again  critically.  Resolutions  of  reconstruc 
tion  he  had  heard  before  —  and  later  watched 
their  downfall;  but  this  time  somehow  there 
was  a  new  element  introduced.  Perhaps,  after 
all  — 

"Waiter,"  he  called,  "we'll  trifle  with  an 
other  quart  of  extra-dry,  if  you  please." 

"  To  your  success,"  he  added  to  his  com- 

[69] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

panion  across  the  table,  when  the  waiter  had 
returned  from  his  mission. 


II 

A  year  passed  around,  as  years  have  a 
way  of  doing,  and  found  Calmar  Bye,  the 
city  man,  metamorphosed  indeed.  Bronzed, 
bearded,  corduroy-clothed,  cigarette-smoking, 
—  for  cigars  fifty  miles  from  a  railroad  are  a 
curiosity, —  as  the  seasons  are  dissimilar,  so 
was  he  unlike  his  former  inconsequent  self. 
In  his  every  action  now  was  a  directness 
and  a  purpose  of  which  he  had  not  even  a 
conception  in  his  former  existence. 

Very,  very  thin  upon  us  all  is  the  veneer  of 
civilization;  very,  very  swift  is  the  reversion 
to  the  primitive  when  opportunity  presents. 
Only  twelve  short  months  and  this  man,  end 
product  of  civilization,  doer  of  nothing  prac 
tical,  dreamer  of  dreams  and  recorder  of  fan 
cies,  had  become  a  positive  force,  a  contributor 
to  the  world's  food  supply,  a  producer  of  meat. 
What  a  satire,  in  a  period  of  time  of  which 
the  shifting  seasons  could  be  counted  upon  one 

[70] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

hand,  to  have  vibrated  from  manuscript  to  beef, 
and  for  the  change  to  be  seemingly  unalterable  ! 

To  be  sure  there  had  been  a  struggle;  a 
period  of  travail  while  readjustment  was  being 
established;  a  desperate  sense  of  homesickness 
at  first  view  of  the  undulating,  grass -covered, 
horizon-bounded  prairies  ;  an  insatiable  need 
of  the  shops,  the  theatres,  the  telephones,  the 
cafes,  the  newspapers,  all  of  which  previously 
had  constituted  everything  that  made  life  worth 
living.  But  these  emotions  had  passed  away. 
What  evolvement  of  civilization  could  equal 
the  beauty  of  a  dew-scented,  sun-sparkling 
prairie  morning,  or  the  grandeur  of  a  soundless, 
star-dotted  prairie  night,  wherein  the  very  limit- 
lessness  of  things,  their  immensity,  was  a  never 
ending  source  of  wonder  ?  Verily,  all  changes 
and  conditions  of  life  have  their  compensations. 

Calmar  Bye,  the  one  time  listless,  had 
learned  many  things  in  this  unheard-of  world. 

First  of  all,  most  insistent  of  all,  he  was  im 
pressed  with  the  overwhelming  predominance 
of  the  physical  over  the  mental.  Later,  in  prac 
tical  knowledge,  he  grew  inured  to  the  "  feel " 
of  a  native  bucking  broncho  and  the  sound  of 

[71] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

mocking,  human  laughter  after  a  stunning  fall; 
in  direct  evolution,  the  method  of  throwing  a 
steer  and  the  odor  of  burnt  hair  and  hide  which 
followed  the  puff  of  smoke  where  the  branding 
iron  touched  ceased  to  be  cruel. 

Last  of  all,  highest  evolvement  of  all,  came 
the  absorption  of  revolver-lore  under  the  in 
struction  of  experts  who  made  but  pastime  of 
picking  a  jack-rabbit  in  its  flight,  or  bringing  a 
kite,  soaring  high  in  air,  tumbling  precipitate 
to  earth.  A  wild  life  it  was  and  a  rough,  but 
fascinating  nevertheless  in  its  demonstration  of 
the  overwhelming  superiority  of  man,  the  ani 
mal,  in  nerve  and  endurance  over  every  other 
live  thing  on  earth. 

At  the  end  of  the  year,  with  the  hand  of 
winter  again  pressed  firmly  upon  the  land,  it 
seemed  time  could  do  no  more ;  that  the  adapta 
tion  of  the  exotic  to  his  new  surroundings  was 
complete.  Already  the  past  life  seemed  a 
thing  interesting  but  aloof  from  reality,  like 
the  fantastic  exploits  of  a  hero  of  fiction,  and 
the  present,  the  insistently  active,  vital  pres 
ent,  the  sole  consideration  of  importance. 

In  the  appreciation  of  the  stoic  indifference 
[72] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

of  the  then  West  it  was  a  slight  incident  which 
overthrew.  One  cowboy,  "  Slim  "  Rawley,  had 
a  particularly  vicious  broncho,  which  none  but 
he  had  ever  been  able  to  control,  and  which  in 
consequence,  he  prized  as  the  apple  of  his  eye. 
During  his  temporary  absence  from  the  ranch 
one  day  a  confrere,  "  Stiff  "  Warwick,  had,  in 
a  spirit  of  bravado,  roped  the  "devil"  and 
instituted  a  contest  of  wills.  The  pony  was 
stubborn,  the  man  likewise,  and  a  battle  royal 
followed.  As  a  buzzard  scents  carrion,  other 
cowboys  anticipated  sport,  and  a  group  soon 
gathered.  Ere  minutes  had  passed  the  blood 
of  the  belligerents  was  up,  and  they  were  bat 
tling  as  for  life,  with  a  dogged  determination 
which  would  have  lasted  upon  the  part  of  either, 
the  man  or  the  beast,  until  death.  Rough 
scenes  and  inhuman,  Bye  had  witnessed  until 
blase;  but  nothing  before  like  this.  The  man 
used  quirt,  rowel,  and  profanity  like  a  fiend. 
The  pony,  panting,  quivering,  bucking,  strug 
gling,  covered  with  foam  and  streaming  with 
blood,  shrilled  with  the  impotent  anger  of  a 
demon.  Even  the  impassive  cowboy  spectators 
from  chaffing  lapsed  into  silence. 

[73] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Of  a  sudden,  loping  easily  over  the  frost- 
bound  prairie  and  following  the  winding  trail 
of  a  cowpath,  appeared  the  approaching  figure 
of  a  horse  and  rider.  It  came  on  steadily,  clear 
to  the  gathered  group,  and  stopped.  An  in 
stant  and  the  newcomer  understood  the  scene 
and  a  curse  sprang  to  his  lips.  Another  instant 
and  his  own  mustang  was  spurred  in  close  by 
the  strugglers.  His  right  hand  raised  in  air 
and  bearing  a  heavy  quirt,  descended  ;  not 
upon  the  broncho,  but  far  across  the  cursing, 
devilish  face  of  the  man,  its  rider.  Then 
swift  as  thought  and  simultaneously  as  twin 
machines,  the  hands  of  the  intruder  and  of  the 
struggling  "  buster  "  went  to  their  hips. 

The  spectators  held  their  breaths;  not  one 
stirred.  Before  them  they  saw  the  hands 
which  had  gone  to  hips  flash  up  and  forward 
like  pistons  from  companion  cylinders,  and 
they  saw  two  puffs  of  smoke  like  escaping 
steam. 

Smoothly,  as  a  scene  in  a  rehearsed  play, 
the  reports  mingled,  the  riders,  scarcely  ten 
feet  apart,  tottered  in  their  saddles,  and  slowly, 

[74] 


They  saw  the  hands  which  had  gone  to  hips  flash  up  and 
forward  like  pistons,  and  two  puff's  of  smoke  like 
escaping  steam, 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

unconsciously  resistant  even  in  death,  the  two 
bodies  slipped  to  earth. 

But  there  the  unison  ended.  The  mustang 
which  "  Slim"  Rawley  rode  stood  still  in  its 
tracks;  but  before  the  spectators  could  rush 
in,  the  "  devil "  broncho,  relieved  of  the  hand 
upon  the  curb,  sprang  away,  and  with  the 
"  buster's  "  foot  caught  fast  in  the  stirrup  ran 
squealing,  kicking,  crazy  mad  out  over  the 
prairie,  dragging  by  its  side  the  limp  figure  of 
its  unseated  enemy. 

Calmar  Bye  watched  the  whole  spectacle  as 
in  a  dream.  So  swift  had  been  the  action,  so 
fantastic  the  denouement,  that  he  could  not  at 
first  reconcile  it  all  with  reality.  He  wrent 
slowly  over  to  the  prostrate  "  Slim "  Rawley, 
whom  the  others  had  laid  out  decently  upon  the 
ground,  half  expecting  him  to  leap  up  and 
laugh  in  their  faces;  but  the  already  stiffening 
figure  with  the  fiendish  scowl  upon  its  face,  was 
convincing. 

Besides,  —  gods,  the  indifference  of  these 
men  to  death  !  The  party  of  onlookers  were 
already  separating  —  one  division,  mounted, 
starting  in  pursuit  of  the  escaping  broncho, 

[75] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

along  the  narrow  trail  made  by  the  dragged 
man;  the  others  impassively  reconnoitring  for 
spades  and  shovels,  were  stolidly  awaiting  the 
breaking  of  the  lock  of  frost-bound  earth  at 
the  hands  of  a  big,  red-shirted  cowboy  with  a 
pick  ! 

"  Here,  Bye,"  suggested  one  toiler,  "  you  're 
an  eddicated  man;  say  a  prayer  er  something, 
can't  ye,  before  we  plant  old  *  Slim.'  He  wa  'nt 
sech  a  bad  sort." 

The  tenderfoot  complied,  and  said  something 
—  he  never  knew  just  what — as  the  dry  clods 
thumped  dully  upon  the  huddled  figure  in  the 
old  gunny  sack.  What  he  said  must  have  been 
good,  for  those  present  resisted  with  difficulty 
a  disposition  to  applaud. 

This  labor  complete,  the  cowboys  scattered, 
miles  apart,  each  to  his  division  of  the  herd, 
which  for  better  range  had  been  distributed 
over  a  wide  territory.  Bye  was  in  charge  of  the 
home  bunch,  and  sat  long  after  the  others  had 
left,  upon  the  new- formed  mound  in  the  ranch 
dooryard. 

Far  over  the  broad,  rolling  prairies,  as  yet 
bare  and  frost-bound,  the  sun  shone  brightly. 

[76] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

A  half-mile  away  he  could  see  his  own  herd 
scattered  and  grazing.  The  stillness  after  the 
sudden  excitement  was  almost  unbelievable. 
Minutes  passed  by  which  dragged  into  an  hour. 
Over  the  face  of  the  sun  a  faint  haze  began  to 
form  and,  unnoticeable  to  one  not  prairie- 
trained,  the  air  took  on  a  sympathetic  feel, 
almost  of  dampness.  A  native  would  have 
sensed  a  warning;  but  Calmar  Bye,  one  time 
writer,  paid  no  heed.  An  instinct  of  his  life, 
one  he  had  thought  suppressed,  a  necessity  im 
perative  as  hunger,  was  gathering  upon  him 
strongly  —  the  overwhelming  instinct  to  por 
tray  the  unusual. 

Under  its  guidance,  as  in  a  maze,  he  made  his 
way  into  the  rough,  unplastered  shanty.  Auto 
matically  he  found  a  pencil  and  collected  some 
scraps  of  coarse  wrapping  paper.  Already  the 
opening  words  of  the  tale  he  had  to  tell  were  in 
his  mind,  and  sitting  down  by  the  greasy  pine- 
board  table,  he  began  to  write. 

Hours  passed.  Over  the  sun  the  haze  thick 
ened.  The  whole  sky  grew  sodden,  the  earth  a 
corresponding  grayish  hue.  Now  and  anon 
puffs  of  wind,  like  sudden  breaths,  stirred  the 

[77] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

dull  air,  and  the  short  buffalo  grass  trembled 
in  anticipation.  The  puffs  increased  until  their 
direction  became  definite,  and  at  last  here  and 
there  big,  irregular  feathers  of  snow  drifted 
languidly  to  earth. 

Within  the  shanty  the  man  wrote  unceas 
ingly.  Many  fragments  he  covered  and  de 
posited,  an  irregular  heap,  at  his  right  hand. 
At  his  left  an  adolescent  mound  of  cigarette 
stumps  grew  steadily  larger.  A  cloud  of  to 
bacco  smoke  over  his  head,  driven  here  and 
there  by  vagrant  currents  of  air,  gathered 
denser  and  denser. 

As  the  light  failed,  the  writer  unconsciously 
moved  the  rough  table  nearer  and  nearer  the 
window  until,  blocked,  it  could  go  no  farther. 
To  one  less  preoccupied  the  grating  over  the 
uneven  floor  would  have  been  startling.  Once 
just  outside  the  door  the  waiting  pony  neighed 
warningly  —  and  again.  Upon  the  ledge  be 
neath  the  window-pane  a  tiny  mound  of  snow- 
flakes  began  to  take  form;  around  the  shanty 
the  rising  wind  mourned  dismally. 

The  light  failed  by  degrees,  until  the  paper 
was  scarcely  visible,  and,  brought  to  conscious- 

[78] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

ness,  the  man  rose  to  light  a  lamp.  One  look 
about  and  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead, 
absently.  Striding  to  the  door,  he  flung  it  wide 
open. 

"  Hell ! "  he  muttered  in  complex  apostrophe. 

To  put  on  hat  and  top-coat  was  the  act  of  a 
moment.  To  release  the  tethered  pony  the  work 
of  another ;  then  swift  as  a  great  brown  shadow, 
out  across  the  whitening  prairie  to  the  spot  he 
remembered  last  to  have  seen  the  herd,  the  de 
linquent  urged  the  willing  broncho  —  only  to 
find  emptiness;  not  even  the  suggestion  of  a 
trail. 

Back  and  forth,  through  miles  and  miles  of 
country,  in  semi-circles  ever  widening,  through 
a  storm  ever  increasing  and  with  daylight 
steadily  diminishing,  Calmar  Bye  searched 
doggedly  for  the  departed  herd ;  searched  until 
at  last  even  he,  ignorant  of  the  supreme  terrors 
of  a  South  Dakota  blizzard,  dared  not  remain 
out  longer. 

That  he  found  his  way  back  to  the  ranch  yard 
was  almost  a  miracle.  As  it  was,  groping  at 
last  in  utter  darkness,  blinded  by  a  sleet  which 
cut  like  dull  knives,  and  buff eted  by  a  wind  like 

[79] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

a  hurricane,  more  dead  than  alive  he  stumbled 
upon  the  home  shanty  and  opening  the  door 
drew  the  weary  broncho  in  after  him.  Man  and 
beast  were  brothers  on  such  a  night. 

Of  the  hours  which  followed,  of  moaning 
wind  and  drifting  sleet,  nature  kindly  gave  him 
oblivion.  Dead  tired,  he  slept.  And  morning, 
crisp,  smiling,  cloudless,  was  about  him  when 
he  awoke. 

Rising,  and  scarcely  stopping  for  a  lunch, 
the  man  again  sallied  forth  upon  his  search, 
wading  through  drifts  blown  almost  firm 
enough  to  bear  the  pony's  weight  and  alternate 
spots  wind-swept  bare  as  a  floor ;  while  all  about, 
gorgeous  as  multiple  rainbows,  flashed  mocking 
bright  the  shifting  sparkle  from  innumerable 
frost  crystals. 

All  the  morning  he  searched,  farther  and 
farther  away,  until  the  country  grew  rougher 
and  he  was  full  ten  miles  from  home.  At  last, 
stopping  upon  a  small  hill  to  reconnoitre,  the 
searcher  heard  far  in  the  distance  a  sound 
he  recognized  and  which  sent  his  cheek  pale  — 
the  faint  dying  wail  of  a  wounded  steer.  It 
came  from  a  deep  draw  between  two  low  hills, 

[80] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

one  cut  into  a  steep  ravine  by  converged  floods 
and  hidden  by  the  tall  surrounding  weeds.  Bye 
knew  the  place  well  and  the  significance  of  the 
sound  he  heard.  In  a  cattle  country,  after  a 
sudden  blizzard,  it  could  have  but  one  meaning, 
and  that  the  terror  of  all  time  to  animals  wild 
or  domestic  —  the  end  of  a  stampede. 

Only  too  soon  thereafter  the  searcher  found 
his  herd.  Upon  the  brow  of  a  hill  overlooking 
the  ravine  he  stopped.  Below  him,  bellowing, 
groaning,  struggling,  wounded,  dying,  and 
dead  —  a  great  mass  of  heavy  bodies,  mixed 
indiscriminately  —  bruised,  broken,  segmented, 
blood-covered,  horrible,  lay  the  observer's 
trust,  the  wealth  of  his  employer,  his  own  hope 
of  regeneration,  worse  now  than  worthless 
carrion.  And  the  cause  of  it  all,  the  sole  ex 
cuse  for  this  delinquency,  lay  back  there  upon 
a  greasy  table  in  the  shanty  —  a  short  scrawl 
ing  tale  scribbled  upon  a  handful  of  scrap 
paper ! 

Ill 

"Yes,  I'm  back,  Bob." 

The  tall,  thin  Calmar  Bye  leaned  back  in  his 

[81] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

chair  and  looked  listlessly  about  the  familiar 
cafe,  without  a  suggestion  of  emotion.  It 
seemed  to  him  hardly  credible  that  he  had  been 
away  from  it  all  for  a  year  and  more.  Nothing 
was  changed.  Across  the  room  the  same 
mirrors  repeated  the  reflections  he  had  observed 
so  many  times  before.  Nearby  were  the  same 
booths  and  from  within  them  came  the  same 
laughter  and  chatter  and  suppressed  song.  Op 
posite  the  tiny  table  the  same  man  with  the 
broad,  good-natured  face  was  making  critical, 
smiling  observation,  as  of  yore.  As  ever,  the 
look  recalled  the  visionary  to  the  present. 

"Back  for  good,  Bob,"  he  repeated  slowly. 

The  speaker's  attitude  was  far  from  being 
that  of  a  conquering  hero  returned;  the  sym 
pathies  of  the  easy-going  Robert,  ever  respon 
sive,  were  roused. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  old  man  ? "  he  queried 
tentatively.  "Weren't  you  a  success  as  a 
broncho-buster  ? " 

"A  success  ! "  Calmar  Bye  stroked  a  long, 
thin  face  with  a  long,  thin  hand.  "  A  success  ! " 
he  repeated.  "  I  could  n't  have  been  a  worse 

[82] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

failure,  Bob."  He  paused  a  moment,  smooth 
ing  the  table-cloth  absently  with  his  finger  tips. 

"  Success  ! "  once  more,  bitterly.  "  I  'm  not 
even  a  mediocre  at  anything  unless  it  is  at  what 
I'm  doing  now,  dangling  and  helping  spend 
the  money  some  one  else  has  worked  all  day  to 
earn."  He  looked  his  astonished  friend  fair  in 
the  eyes. 

"You  don't  know  what  an  idiot,  a  worse 
than  idiot,  I  've  made  of  myself,"  and  he  began 
the  story  of  the  past  year. 

Monotonously,  unemotionally  he  told  the 
tale,  omitting  nothing,  adding  nothing;  while 
about  him  the  sounds  of  the  restaurant,  the 
tinkling  of  glassware,  the  ring  of  silver,  the 
familiar  muffled  pop  of  extracted  corks,  played 
a  soft  accompaniment.  Occasionally  Bob 
would  make  a  comment  or  ask  explanation  of 
something  to  him  entirely  new;  but  that  was  all 
until  near  the  end, —  where  the  delinquent 
herder,  coming  swiftly  to  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
looked  down  upon  the  scene  in  the  ravine  below. 
Then  Bob,  the  care-free,  the  pleasure-seeking, 
raised  a  hand  in  swift  protest. 

[83] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"Don't  describe  it,  please,  old  man,"  he  re 
quested.  "  I'd  rather  not  hear." 

The  speaker's  voice  ceased ;  over  his  thin  fea 
tures  fell  the  light  of  a  queer  little  half -smile 
which,  instead  of  declaring  itself,  only  pro 
voked  Bob  Wilson's  curiosity.  In  the  silence 
Bye,  with  a  hand  unaccustomed  to  the  exercise, 
made  the  familiar  gesture  that  brought  one  of 
the  busy  attendants  to  his  side. 

"And  the  story  you  wrote — ?"  suggested 
Wilson  while  they  waited. 

For  answer  Calmar  Bye  drew  an  envelope 
from  his  pocket  and  tossed  it  across  the  table 
to  his  friend.  Wilson  first  noted  that  it  bore 
the  return  address  of  one  of  the  country's  fore 
most  magazines;  he  then  unfolded  the  letter 
and  read  aloud : 

"DEAR  MR.  BYE:  — 

"The  receipt  of  your  two  stories,  'Storm 
and  Stampede '  and  '  The  Lonely  Grave,'  has 
settled  a  troublesome  question  for  us,  namely: 
What  has  become  of  Mr.  Calmar  Bye  ? 

"  No  doubt  you  will  recall  that  our  criticisms 
of  the  material  which  you  have  submitted  from 

[84] 


DOMINANT   IMPULSE 

time  to  time  in  the  past,  were  directed  chiefly 
against  faults  arising  out  of  your  unf amiliarity 
with  your  subjects.  The  present  manuscripts 
bear  the  best  testimony  that  you  have  been 
gathering  your  material  at  first  hand.  We 
have  the  feeling,  as  we  read,  that  every  sentence 
flows  straight  from  the  heart. 

"Now  we  want  just  such  vivid,  gripping, 
red-blooded  cross-sections  of  life  as  these,  your 
two  latest  accomplishments;  in  fact,  we  can't 
get  enough  of  them.  Therefore,  instead  of 
making  you  a  cash  offer  for  these  two  stories, 
we  suggest  that  you  first  call  at  our  office  at 
your  earliest  convenience.  If  agreeable,  we 
should  like  to  arrange  for  a  series  of  Western 
stories  and  articles,  the  evolving  of  which  should 
keep  you  engaged  for  some  time  to  come. 

"Cordially, 


The  hands  of  the  two  friends  clasped  across 
the  table.  No  word  disturbed  the  silence  until 
the  forgotten  waiter  broke  in  impatiently : 

"Yo'  o'der,  sahs?" 

"Champagne"  —  this  time  it  was   Calmar 

[85] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Bye  who  gave  it — "a  quart.    And  be  lively 
about  it,  too." 

"Well,  well!"  Bob  Wilson's  admiration 
burst  forth.  "It  is  worth  a  whole  herd  of 
steers." 


[86] 


THE  STUFF  OF  HEROES 

SPRINGTIME  on  the  prairies  of  South 
Dakota.  It  is  early  morning,  the  sun  is 
not  yet  up,  but  all  is  light  and  even  and  soft 
and  all-surrounding,  so  that  there  are  no 
shadows.  In  every  direction  the  gently  rolling 
country  is  dotted  brown  and  white  from  the 
incomplete  melting  of  winter's  snows.  In  the 
low  places  tiny  streams  of  snow-water,  melted 
yesterday,  sing  low  under  the  lattice-work 
blanket  the  frost  has  built  in  the  night.  Nearby 
and  in  the  distance  prairie-chickens  are  calling, 
lonely,  uncertain.  Wild  ducks  in  confused 
masses,  mere  specks  in  the  distance,  follow  low 
over  the  winding  curves  of  the  river.  High 
overhead,  flocks  of  geese  in  regular  black 
wedges,  and  brant,  are  flying  northward,  and 
the  breezy  sound  of  flapping  wings  and  of 
voices  calling,  mingle  in  the  sweetest  of  all 
music  to  those  who  know  the  prairies  —  Na 
ture's  morning  song  of  springtime. 

[87] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  What  a  country  !  Look  there  ! "  The  big 
man  in  the  front  seat  of  the  rough,  low  wagon 
pointed  east  where  the  sun  rose  slowly  from 
the  lap  of  the  prairie.  The  other  men  cleared 
their  throats  as  if  to  speak,  but  said  nothing. 

"  And  I  Ve  lived  sixty  years  without  know 
ing,"  continued  the  first  voice,  musingly. 

"I've  never  been  West  before,  either,"  ad 
mitted  De  Young,  simply. 

They  drove  on,  the  trickling  of  snow-water 
sounding  around  the  wagon  wheels. 

The  third  man,  Clark,  pointed  back  in  the 
direction  they  had  come. 

"Did  any  one  back  there  inquire  what  we 
were  doing  ? "  he  asked. 

"  A  fellow  '  'lowed,'  with  a  rising  inflection, 
that  we  were  hunting  ducks,"  said  De  Young. 
"  I  temporized;  made  him  forget  that  I  hadn't 
answered.  You  know  what  will  happen  once 
the  curiosity  of  the  natives  is  aroused." 

"I  wasn't  approached,"  Morris  joined  in, 
without  turning.  The  corners  of  the  big  man's 
mouth  twitched,  as  the  suggested  picture 
formed  swiftly  in  his  mind. 

After  a  pause,  De  Young  spoke  again. 

[88] 


THE    STUFF   OF   HEROES 

"  I  gave  the  postmaster  a  specially  good  tip 
to  see  that  we  got  our  mail  out  promptly." 

"  So  did  I,"  Clark  admitted. 

The  face  of  the  serious  man  lighted;  and, 
their  eyes  meeting,  the  three  friends  smiled  all 
together. 

The  sun  rose  higher,  without  a  breath  of 
wind  from  over  the  prairies,  and  one  after  an 
other  the  men  removed  their  top-coats.  The 
horses'  hoofs  splashed  at  each  step  in  slush 
and  running  water,  sending  drops  against  the 
dashboard  with  a  sound  like  rain. 

The  trail  which  they  were  following  could 
now  scarcely  be  seen,  except  at  intervals  on 
higher  ground,  where  hoof -prints  and  the 
tracks  of  wheels  were  scored  in  the  soft  mud, 
and  with  each  mile  these  marks  grew  deeper 
and  broader  as  the  partly  frozen  earth 
softened. 

The  air  of  solemnity  which  had  hung  about 
the  men  for  days,  and  which  lifted  from  time 
to  time  only  temporarily,  now  silenced  them 
again.  Indeed,  had  there  been  anybody 
present  to  observe,  he  doubtless  would  have 
been  impressed  most  of  all  with  the  unwonted 

[89] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

soberness  of  the  wagon's  occupants,  a  gravity 
strangely  at  variance  with  the  rampant,  fe 
cund  season. 

And  the  object  of  their  journeying  into  this 
unknown  world  was  in  all  truth  a  matter  for 
silence  rather  than  speech;  its  influence  was 
toward  deep  and  earnest  meditation,  to  which 
the  joyous,  awakening  world  could  do  no  more 
than  chant  in  a  minor  key  a  melancholy  accom 
paniment.  Never  did  a  soldier  advancing 
upon  a  breach  in  the  enemy's  breastworks 
more  certainly  confront  the  grinning  face  of 
Death,  than  did  this  trio  in  their  progress 
across  the  singing  prairie;  but  where  the 
plaudits  of  the  world  spelled  glory  for  the 
one,  the  three  in  the  wagon  knew  that  for 
them  Death  meant  oblivion,  extinction,  a 
blotting  out  that  must  needs  be  utter  and 
inevitable. 

The  thoughts  of  each  dwelt  upon  some  as 
pect  of  two  scenes  which  had  happened  only 
a  brief  fortnight  previously.  There  had  been 
a  notable  convention  of  physicians  in  a  city 
many  miles  to  the  east.  One  delegate,  a  man 
young,  slender,  firm  of  jaw,  his  face  shining 

[90] 


THE   STUFF   OF   HEROES 

with  zeal  and  the  spirit  which  courts  self- 
immolation,  had  addressed  the  body.  His 
speech  had  made  a  profound  impression — 
after  its  first  effect  of  sensation  had  subsided 
—  upon  the  hundreds  gathered  there,  who 
hearkened  amazedly;  but  of  those  hundreds 
only  two  had  been  moved  to  lay  aside  the  tools 
of  their  calling  and  follow  him. 

And  whither  was  he  leading  them  ?  Into 
the  Outer  Darkness,  each  firmly  believed. 
For  them  the  future  was  spelled  nihil;  for 
the  world,  salvation  —  perhaps. 

The  inspired  voice  still  rang  in  memory. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  repeat,  it  is  a  challenge. 
.  .  .  The  flag  of  the  enemy  is  hung  up 
boldly,  flauntingly,  in  every  public  place. 
.  .  .  Are  we  to  permit  this  ?  Are  we  to 
sit  idle  and  acknowledge  ourselves  beaten  in 
the  great  struggle  against  Death  ?  No,  no,  no  ! 
The  Nation — yea,  the  whole  civilized  world  — 
shrinks  and  shudders  in  terror  before  the  sound 
of  one  dread  word  —  tuberculosis ! 

"Our  professional  honor — our  personal 
honor  as  well,  gentlemen — is  at  stake.  A 
solemn  charge  is  laid  upon  us.  .  .  .  We 

[91] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

must  die  if  need  be;  but  we  must  conquer  this 
monstrous  scourge,  which  is  the  single  cause  of 
more  than  one  death  in  every  ten." 

And  then,  the  deep  silence  which  had 
marked  the  closing  words: 

"  Gentlemen,  I  can  cure  consumption,"  came 
the  simple  declaration.  "If  there  are  those 
among  you  who  value  Science  more  than  gain; 
who  are  willing  to  dare  with  me,  willing  to  pay 
the  extreme  price,  if  necessary  —  if  there  are 
any  such  among  you,  and  I  believe  there  are, 
meet  with  me  in  my  rooms  this  evening." 

To  the  eight  who  accepted  that  invitation, 
Dr.  De  Young  disclosed  the  details  of  his  Great 
Experiment.  It  included,  among  many  other 
things  which  no  one  but  a  physician  can  appre 
ciate,  the  lending  of  their  bodies  to  the  Experi 
ment's  exemplification.  Of  the  eight,  two  had 
agreed  to  follow  him  to  the  end.  Each  of  the 
three  had  placed  his  house  in  order,  and  here 
they  were,  nearing  that  end,  whatever  it  was 
to  be. 

An  hour  passed,  and  now  ahead  in  the  dis 
tance  a  rough  shanty  came  into  view.  It  was 
the  only  house  in  sight,  and  the  three  men  knew 

[92] 


THE   STUFF   OF   HEROES 

it  was  to  be  theirs.  In  silence  they  drew  up 
where  the  men  were  unpacking  their  goods. 

"  Good  morning  for  ducks  —  saw  a  big  flock 
of  mallards  back  here  in  a  pond,"  observed  the 
man  who  took  their  team. 

The  three  doctors  alighted  without  answer 
ing,  and  watching  them,  the  man  stroked  a 
stubby  red  whisker  in  meditation. 

"  Lord,  they  're  a  frost ! "  he  commented. 

Night  had  come,  and  the  stars  shone  early 
from  a  sky  yet  light  and  warm.  In  the  low 
places  the  waters  sang  louder  than  before,  with 
the  increase  of  a  day's  thawing.  Looking  away, 
the  white  spots  were  smaller  and  the  brown 
patches  larger ;  otherwise,  all  was  the  same,  the 
prairie  of  yesterday,  of  to-day,  and  to-morrow. 

Tired  with  a  day  of  settling,  the  three  men 
stood  in  the  doorway  and  for  the  first  time 
viewed  the  country  at  night.  They  were  not 
talkers  at  best,  and  now  the  immensity  of  the 
broad  prairies  held  them  silent.  The  daily 
struggle  of  life,  the  activity  and  rivalry  and 
ambition  which  before  to-night  had  seemed  so 
great  to  these  city-bred  men,  here  alone  with 

[93] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Nature  and  Nature's  God,  where  none  other 
might  see,  assumed  their  true  worth.  The 
tangled  web  of  life  loosened  and  many  foreign 
things  caught  and  held  therein,  fell  out.  Man, 
introspecting,  saw  himself  at  his  real  worth,  and 
was  not  proud. 

The  absolute  quiet,  so  unusual,  made  them 
wakeful,  and  though  tired,  they  sat  long  in  the 
doorway,  smoking,  thinking.  Small  talk 
seemed  to  them  profanation,  and  of  that 
which  was  uppermost  in  each  man's  mind, 
none  cared  first  to  speak.  A  subtle  understand 
ing,  called  telepathy,  was  making  of  their 
several  minds  a  thing  united. 

"No,  not  to-night,  it's  too  beautiful,"  said 
De  Young  at  length,  and  the  protesting  voice 
sounded  to  his  own  ears  as  that  of  a  stranger. 

The  men  started  at  the  sound,  and  the  glow 
ing  tips  of  three  cigars  described  partial  arcs  in 
the  half  light  as  they  turned  each  to  each.  No 
one  answered.  They  were  face  to  face  with 
fundamentals  at  last. 

Minutes,  an  hour,  passed.  The  cigars  burned 
out,  and  as  the  pleasant  odor  of  tobacco  died 
away,  there  came  the  chill  night  air  of  the 

[94] 


THE   STUFF   OF   HEROES 

prairie.  The  two  older  men  rose  stiffly,  and 
with  a  low  good-night,  stumbled  into  the  dark 
ness  of  the  shanty. 

De  Young  sat  alone  in  the  doorway.  He 
realized  that  it  was  the  supreme  hour  of  his  life. 
In  his  mind,  memory  of  past  and  hope  of  future 
met  on  the  battlefield  of  the  present,  and  meet 
ing,  mingled  in  chaos.  Thoughts  came  crowd 
ing  upon  each  other  thick — the  thoughts  which 
come  to  few  more  than  once  in  life,  to  multi 
tudes,  never ;  the  thoughts  which  writers  in  every 
language,  during  all  time,  have  sought  words  to 
express,  and  in  vain. 

Everywhere  the  snow-streams  sang  lower  and 
lower.  A  fog,  dense,  penetrating,  born  of  early 
morning,  wrapped  all  things  about,  uniting  and 
at  the  same  time  setting  apart.  Shivering,  he 
shut  the  door  on  the  night  and  the  damp,  and  as 
by  instinct  crept  into  bed.  Listening  in  the 
darkness,  the  sound  of  the  sleepers  soothed  him. 
Happier  thoughts  came,  thoughts  which  made 
his  heart  beat  more  swiftly  and  his  eyes  grow 
tender ;  for  he  was  yet  young,  and  love  untold 
ever  dwelleth  near  heaven.  Thus  he  fell  asleep 
with  a  smile. 

[95] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Choose,  please.  We  '11  take  our  turns  in  the 
order  of  length,"  said  De  Young,  holding  up 
the  ends  of  three  paper  strips.  Each  man  drew, 
and  in  the  silence  that  followed,  without  a  word 
Morris  turned  away,  preparing  swiftly  for  the 
operation. 

"  Give  me  chloroform,"  he  said,  stretching 
himself  horizontally,  —  adding  as  the  others 
bent  over  him,  "  Inoculate  deep,  please.  Let 's 
not  waste  time." 

Swiftly,  with  the  precision  of  absolute  knowl 
edge,  the  two  physicians  did  their  work.  A  mist 
was  over  their  eyes,  so  that  all  the  room  looked 
dim,  as  to  old  men;  and  hands  which  had  not 
known  a  tremor  for  years,  shook  as  they  emptied 
the  contents  of  the  little  syringe,  teeming  with 
tiny,  unseen,  living  rods.  Clark's  forehead  was 
damp  with  a  perspiration  that  physical  pain 
could  not  have  brought,  and  on  De  Young's 
face,  time  marked  those  minutes  as  months. 

It  was  all  done  with  the  habit  of  years.  The 
two  doctors  carefully  sterilized  their  instru 
ments  and  replaced  them  in  cases,  then,  silently, 
drawn  nearer  together  than  ever  before,  the 
two  friends  watched  the  return  of  consciousness. 

[96] 


THE    STUFF   OF   HEROES 

And  Morris  awakening,  things  real  and  of 
dreamland  still  confused  to  his  senses,  heard  the 
soft  voice  which  a  legion  of  patients  had  thus 
heard  and  blessed,  saying  cheerily,  "  Wake  up  ! 
wake  up,  my  friend  ! " 

Thus  the  day  passed.  In  turn,  the  men,  hours 
apart,  with  active  brains,  and  eyes  wide  open, 
sent  their  challenges  to  Death  —  each  man  his 
own  messenger. 

The  months  slipped  by.  Suns  became  torrid 
hot,  and  cooled  until  it  seemed  there  was  light 
but  not  heat  on  earth.  Days  grew  longer,  and 
in  unison,  earth  waxed  greener ;  then  in  descend 
ing  scale,  both  together  waned.  Migratory 
wings  fluttering  at  night,  and  passing  voices 
calling  in  the  darkness  —  most  lonely  sounds  of 
earth  —  gave  place  to  singers  of  the  day.  The 
robin,  the  meadow-lark,  the  ubiquitous  catbird, 
all  born  of  prairie  and  of  summer,  came  and 
went.  Blackbirds  in  countless  flocks  followed. 
Again  the  calling  of  prairie-chickens  was  heard 
at  eve  and  morning,  and  anon  frost  glistened  in 
the  air. 

At  last  throughout  the  land  no  sound  of 
animal  voice  was  heard,  for  winter  bound  all 

F971 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

things  firm  and  white.  Another  cycle  was  com 
plete  ;  yet,  almost  ere  the  record  could  be  made, 
there  appeared,  moving  far  in  the  distance,  a 
black  triangle.  Passing  swiftly,  with  the  sound 
of  wings  and  calling  voices,  there  sprang  anew 
in  all  things  animate  a  mixed  feeling  of  glad 
ness  and  unrest,  which  was  the  spirit  of  returned 
spring. 

Thus  twice  the  cycle  of  the  seasons  passed, 
and  again  the  sun  of  early  spring,  shining 
bright,  set  the  tiny  snow-streams  singing.  It 
glistened  over  the  prairie  on  snow-drift  and 
frost ;  it  lit  up  the  few  scattered  shingled  roofs 
of  settlers  newly  come;  and  shone  in  at  the 
open  door  of  a  rough  cabin  we  know,  touch 
ing  without  pity  the  faces  of  the  two  men  who 
watched  its  rise.  Shining  low,  even  with  the 
prairie,  it  touched  in  vivid  contrast  an  oblong 
mound  of  fresh  earth,  heaped  up  target  dis 
tance  from  the  cabin  door. 

The  mound  had  not  been  there  long;  neither 
snow  or  rain  had  yet  touched  it;  it  was  still 
strange  to  the  men  in  the  doorway,  who  saw  it 
vividly  now,  at  time  of  sunrise.  Though  thus 

[98] 


THE    STUFF   OF   HEROES 

early,  each  man  sat  idly  smoking,  an  open  book 
reversed  on  the  knee. 

De  Young  first  broke  the  silence. 

"  We  must  do  something,  or  else  decide  to  do 
nothing  about  Clark's  mail."  He  shifted  in  his 
seat,  looking  away  from  the  open  door. 

"I  don't  know — whether  —  it  would  be 
kinder  to  tell  them  or  not." 

A  coughing  fit  shook  Morris,  and  answering, 
a  twitch  as  of  pain  tightened  the  corners  of  his 
companion's  eyes.  Minutes  passed,  and  Morris 
sat  limply  in  his  chair,  before  he  answered, 

"  I  thought  at  first  we  'd  better  write ;  now  it 
seems  different.  Let 's  wait  until  we  go  back." 

Neither  of  the  men  looked  at  the  other.  They 
seldom  did  now ;  it  was  useless  pain.  Filled  with 
the  incomparable  optimism  of  the  consumptive, 
neither  man  realized  his  own  condition,  but 
marked  the  days  of  his  friend.  Morris,  unbe 
lieving,  spoke  of  his  friend's  return ;  yet,  grow 
ing  weaker  each  day  himself,  spoke  in  all  hope 
and  conviction  of  his  future  work,  recording 
each  day  his  mode  of  successful  treatment,  de 
spite  interruptions  of  coughing  which  left  him 
breathless  and  trembling  for  minutes.  De 

[99] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Young  saw,  and  in  pity  marvelled;  yet,  seeing, 
and  as  a  physician  knowing,  he  not  for  a  mo 
ment  applied  the  gauge  to  himself. 

Nature,  in  sportive  mood,  commands  the 
Angel  of  Death,  who  with  matchless  legerde 
main,  keeps  the  mirror  of  illusion,  unsuspected, 
before  the  consumptive's  eyes;  and,  seeing,  in 
derision  the  satirist  smiles. 

Unavoidably  acting  parts,  the  two  friends 
found  a  barrier  of  artificiality  separating  them, 
making  each  happier  when  alone.  Thus  day 
after  day,  monotonous,  unchanging,  went  by. 
Not  another  person  entered  their  door.  From 
the  little  town  a  man  at  periods  brought  pro 
visions  and  their  mail,  but  the  house  was  ac 
quiring  an  uncanny  reputation.  They  were 
not  understood,  and  such  are  ever  foreign. 
With  the  passage  of  time  and  the  coming  of 
the  mound  in  the  dooryard,  the  feeling  had 
developed  into  positive  fear,  and  travellers 
avoided  the  place  as  though  warned  by  a  scarlet 
placard. 

Morris  grew  weaker  daily.  At  last  the  dis 
illusionment  that  precedes  death  came  to  him. 
The  artificial  slipped  from  both  men  and  a 
Fiool 


THE    STUFF   OF   HEROES 

nearness  like  that  of  brothers,  joined  them. 
They  spoke  not  of  the  future  but  of  the  past. 
Years  slipped  aside  and  left  them  back  in  the 
midst  of  active,  brain-satisfying  practice.  Over 
again  they  performed  operations,  where  life 
and  death  were  separated  but  by  a  hair's 
width.  Again,  with  eyes  that  brightened  and 
breath  that  came  more  quickly,  they  lived  their 
successes,  and  hand  in  hand,  as  children  in  the 
dark,  told  of  their  failures,  and  the  tale  was 
long,  for  they  were  but  men. 

The  end  came  quietly.  A  hemorrhage,  a 
big  spot  of  blood  on  the  cover,  a  firm  hand 
pressure,  and  Morris's  parting  words, 

"  Save  my  notes." 

That  night  De  Young  knew  no  sleep.  "  I 
must  finish  the  work,"  he  said,  in  lame  excuse. 
Well  he  knew  there  could  be  no  rest  for  him 
that  night.  He  did  his  task  thoroughly,  making 
record  of  things  that  had  passed,  with  the  pre 
cision  of  a  physician  who  knows  a  patient  but 
as  material. 

A  tramp,  who,  unknowing,  had  taken  shelter 
in  an  outbuilding,  waking  in  the  night,  saw  the 
light.  Moved  by  curiosity,  he  crawled  up 
[101]  ' 


A  BREATH   OF   PRAIRIE 

softly  in  the  darkness,  and  peeped  in  at  the 
window.  In  the  half  light  he  saw  on  the  bed 
a  thin,  white  face  motionless  in  the  expression 
which  even  he  knew  was  death;  and  at  the 
table,  writing  rapidly  with  manuscript  all 
about,  a  man  whose  eyes  shone  with  the  bril 
liancy  of  disease,  and  with  a  face  as  pale  as  the 
face  on  the  pillow.  In  the  blank,  unreasoning 
terror  of  superstition,  he  fled  until  Nature  re 
belled  and  would  carry  him  no  farther.  Next 
day  to  all  he  saw,  he  told  the  tale  of  super 
natural  things  which  lingers  yet  around  a 
prairie  ruin,  in  whose  dooryard  are  mounds 
built  of  man. 

The  mail  carrier  calling  next  day  saw  a  man 
with  spots  of  scarlet  heightening  the  contrast 
of  a  face  pale  as  death,  digging  in  the  door- 
yard.  The  man  worked  slowly,  for  he  coughed 
often  and  must  rest.  In  kindness  the  carrier 
offered  help,  but  was  refused  with  words  that 
brought  to  the  listener's  eyes  a  moisture  un 
known  since  boyhood,  and  the  thought  of  which 
in  days  that  followed,  kept  him  silent  concern 
ing  what  he  had  seen. 

Summer,  with  the  breath  of  warm  life  and 

[102] 


THE   STUFF   OF   HEROES 

the  odor  of  growing  things;  with  days  made 
dreamy  and  thoughtful  by  the  purring  of  the 
soft  wind  and  the  droning  of  insects ;  and  nights 
when  all  was  good;  with  stars  above  and  crick 
ets  singing  below — summer  had  come  and  was 
passing. 

De  Young  could  no  longer  deceive  himself. 
The  personal  faith  that  had  upheld  him  so  long 
—  when  friends  had  failed  —  could  fight  the 
inevitable  no  longer.  With  eyes  wide  open, 
he  saw  at  last  clearly,  and,  seeing,  realized  the 
end.  He  cared  not  for  death ;  he  was  too  strong 
for  that;  but  it  must  needs  be  that,  now,  with 
the  shadow  of  defeat  lying  dark  over  the  fu 
ture,  the  problem  of  motive,  the  great  "  why," 
should  come  uppermost  in  his  mind  demanding 
an  answer. 

Once  before,  at  the  time  when  other  men 
read  from  their  lives,  he  caught  glimpses  of 
something  beyond.  Now  again  the  mood  re 
turned,  and  he  knew  why  he  was  as  he  was; 
that  with  him  love  was,  and  had  been,  stronger 
than  Science  and  all  else  beside.  He  knew  that 
whatever  he  might  have  done,  the  entering 
into  his  life  of  The  Woman,  and  the  knowledge 

[103] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

that  followed  her  coming,  had  inspired  the 
supreme  motive  that  thenceforth  drove  him  for 
ward.  With  this  realization  came  a  new  life, 
a  happier  and  a  sadder  life,  in  which  all  things 
underwent  readjustment. 

Regret  came  as  sadness,  regret  that  he  had 
not  told  this  woman  all ;  that  in  his  blind  confi 
dence  he  had  not  written,  but  had  waited  — 
waited  for  this.  He  would  wait  no  longer.  He 
would  tell  her  now.  A  thousand  new  thoughts 
came  to  his  mind;  a  thousand  new  feelings 
surged  over  him  as  a  flood,  and  he  poured  them 
out  on  paper.  The  man  himself,  not  the  phy 
sician,  was  unfolded  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
and  the  writing  of  that  letter  which  told  all, 
his  life,  his  love,  that  ended  with  a  good-bye 
which  was  forever,  was  the  sweetest  labor  of 
his  life.  He  sealed  the  letter  and  sat  for  hours 
looking  at  it,  dreaming. 

It  was  summer  and  the  nights  were  short, 
so  that  with  the  writing  and  the  dreams,  morn 
ing  had  come.  He  could  scarce  wait  that  day 
for  the  carrier;  time  to  him  had  become  sud 
denly  a  thing  most  precious;  and  when  at  last 
the  man  appeared.  De  Young  twice  exacted  the 

[104] 


THE    STUFF   OF   HEROES 

promise  that  the  letter  should  be  mailed  special 
delivery. 

The  reaction  was  on  and  all  the  world  was 
dark.  Fool  that  he  was,  two  years  had  passed 
since  he  had  heard  from  her.  She  also  was  a 
consumptive ;  might  not  —  ? 

The  very  thought  was  torture;  perspiration 
started  at  every  pore,  and  with  the  little 
strength  that  was  left  he  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  like  a  caged  animal.  A  fit  of  cough 
ing,  such  as  he  had  never  known  before,  seized 
him,  and  he  dropped  full  length  upon  the  bed. 

The  limit  was  reached;  he  slept. 

As  he  had  worked  one  night  before  to  forget, 
so  he  spent  the  following  days.  It  was  the 
end,  and  he  knew  it;  but  he  no  longer  cared. 
His  future  was  centred  on  one  event  —  the 
coming  of  a  letter.  Beyond  that  all  was 
shadow,  and  he  cared  not  to  explore.  He 
worked  all  that  Nature  would  allow,  carrying 
to  completion  his  observations,  admitting  his 
mistake  with  a  candor  which  now  caused  no 
personal  pain.  He  spent  much  time  at  his 
journal,  writing  needless  things:  his  actions, 
his  very  thoughts,  —  things  which  could  not 

[105] 


A  BREATH   OF  PRAIRIE 

have  been  wrung  from  him  before ;  but  he  was 
lonely  and  desperate.  He  must  not  think  — 
't  was  madness.  So  he  wrote  and  wrote  and 
wrote. 

He  watched  for  the  carrier  all  the  daylight 
hours.  His  mail  was  light,  and  the  coming  in 
frequent.  There  had  been  time  for  an  answer, 
and  the  watcher  could  no  longer  compose  him 
self  to  write.  All  day  he  sat  in  the  doorway, 
looking  across  the  two  mounds,  down  the  road 
whence  the  carrier  would  come. 

And  at  last  he  came.  Far  down  the  road 
toward  town  one  morning  a  familiar  moving 
figure  grew  distinct.  De  Young  watched  as 
though  fascinated.  He  wanted  to  shout,  to 
laugh,  to  cry.  With  an  effort  that  sent  his 
finger  nails  deep  into  his  palms,  he  kept  quiet, 
waiting. 

A  letter  was  in  the  carrier's  hand.  Struck 
by  the  look  on  De  Young's  face,  the  postman 
did  not  turn,  but  stood  near  by  watching.  The 
exile,  once  the  immovable,  seized  the  missive 
feverishly,  then  paused  to  examine.  It  was  a 
man's  writing  he  held,  and  he  winced  as  at  a 
blow,  but  with  a  hand  that  was  nerved  too 

[106] 


THE   STUFF   OF   HEROES 

high  to  tremble,  he  tore  open  the  envelope.  He 
read  the  few  words,  and  read  again;  then  in  a 
motion  of  weariness  and  hopelessness  indescrib 
able,  hands  and  paper  dropped. 

"  My  God  !  And  she  never  knew,"  he  whis 
pered. 

When  next  the  carrier  came,  he  shaped  the 
third  mound. 


[107] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"For  they  have  sown  the  wind,  and  they 
shall  reap  the  whirlwind" 

CHAPTER  I  —  PRELUDE 

ILENCE,  the  silence  of  double  doors  and 
of  padded  walls  was  upon  the  private  room 
of  the  down-town  office.  Across  the  littered, 
ink-stained  desk  a  man  and  a  woman  faced 
each  other.  Threads  of  gray  lightened  the  hair 
of  each.  Faint  lines,  delicate  as  pencillings, 
marked  the  forehead  of  the  woman  and  radi 
ated  from  the  angles  of  her  eyes.  A  deep  fis 
sure  unequally  separated  the  brows  of  the  man, 
and  on  his  shaven  face  another  furrow  added 
firmness  to  the  mouth.  Their  eyes  met  squarely, 
without  a  motion  from  faces  imperturbable  in 
middle  age  and  knowledge  of  life. 

The  man  broke  silence  slowly. 

"  You  mean,"  he  hesitated,  "  what  that  would 
seem  to  mean  ?" 

[109] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Why  not  ? "  A  shade  of  resentment  was 
in  the  answering  voice. 

"But  you're  a  woman — " 

"Well—" 

"And  married — " 

The  note  of  resentment  became  positive. 
"  What  difference  does  that  make  ? " 

"  It  ought  to."  The  man  spoke  almost  me 
chanically.  "You  took  oath  before  man  and 
higher  than  man — " 

The  woman  interrupted  him  shortly. 

"  Another  took  oath  with  me  and  broke  it." 
She  leaned  gracefully  forward  in  the  big  chair 
until  their  eyes  met.  "  I  'm  no  longer  bound." 

"But  I  —  " 

"I  love  you !"  she  interjected. 

The  man's  eyebrows  lifted. 

"Love?"  he  inflected. 

"  Yes,  love.  What  is  love  but  good  friend 
ship —  and  sex  ?" 

The  man  was  silent. 

A  strong  white  hand  slid  under  the  woman's 
chin  and  her  elbow  met  the  desk. 

"  I  meant  what  you  thought,"  she  completed 
slowly. 

[no] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"But  I  cannot  —  " 

"Why?" 

"  It  destroys  all  my  ideas  of  things.  Your 
promise  to  another — " 

"  I  say  he 's  broken  his  promise  to  me." 

"But  your  being  a  woman  —  " 

"Why  do  you  expect  more  of  me  because 
I  'm  a  woman  ?  Have  n't  I  feelings,  rights,  as 
well  as  you  who  are  a  man  ? "  She  waited  until 
he  looked  up.  "I  ask  you  again,  won't  you 
come  ? " 

The  man  arose  and  walked  slowly  back  and 
forth  across  the  narrow  room.  At  length  he 
stopped  by  her  chair. 

"I  cannot." 

In  swift  motion  his  companion  stood  up 
facing  him. 

"  Don't  you  wish  to  ? "  she  challenged. 

The  hand  of  the  man  dropped  in  outward 
motion  of  deprecation. 

"  The  question  is  useless.    I  'm  human." 

"Why  shouldn't  we  do  what  pleases  us, 
then  ? "  The  voice  was  insistent.  "  What  is 
life  for  if  not  for  pleasure  ? " 

"  Would  it  be  pleasure,  though  ?    Would  n't 
[111] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

the  future  hold  for  us  more  of  pain  than  of 
pleasure  ? " 

"  No,  never."  The  words  came  with  a  slow 
ness  that  meant  finality.  "Why  need  to-mor 
row  or  a  year  from  now  be  different  from 
to-day  unless  we  make  it  so  ?  " 

"  But  it  would  change  unconsciously.  We  'd 
think  and  hate  ourselves." 

"  For  what  reason  ?  Isn't  it  Nature  that  at 
tracts  us  to  each  other  and  can  Nature  be 
wrong  ?  " 

"We  can't  always  depend  upon  Nature," 
commented  the  man  absently. 

LC  That 's  an  artificial  argument,  and  you 
know  it."  A  reprimand  was  in  her  voice.  "  If 
you  can't  depend  upon  Nature  to  tell  you  what 
is  right,  what  other  authority  can  you  con 
sult?" 

"  But  Nature  has  been  perverted,"  he  evaded. 

"Isn't  it  possible  your  judgment  instead  is 
at  fault?" 

"  It  can't  be  at  fault,  here."  The  voice  was 
neutral  as  before.  "  Something  tells  us  both 
it  would  be  wrong  —  to  do  —  as  we  want  to  do." 

[112] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

Once  more  they  sat  down  facing  each  other, 
the  desk  between  them  as  at  first. 

"Artificial  convention,  I  tell  you  again." 
In  motion  graceful  as  nature  the  woman  ex 
tended  her  hand,  palm  upward,  on  the  polished 
desk  top.  "  How  could  we  be  other  than  right  ? 
What  do  we  mean  by  right,  anyway  ?  Is  there 
any  judge  higher  than  our  individual  selves, 
and  don't  they  tell  us  pleasure  is  the  chief  aim 
of  life  and  as  such  must  be  right  ? " 

The  muscles  at  the  angle  of  the  man's  jaw 
tightened  involuntarily. 

"  But  pleasure  is  not  the  chief  end  of  life." 

"What  is,  then?" 

"  Development  —  evolution." 

"Evolution  to  what  ?"  she  insisted. 

"That  we  cannot  answer  as  yet.  Future 
generations  must  and  will  give  answer." 

"  It 's  for  this  then  that  you  deny  yourself  ? " 
A  shade  almost  of  contempt  was  in  the  ques 
tioning  voice. 

The  taunt  brought  no  change  of  expression 
to  the  man's  face. 

"Yes." 

The  woman  walked  over  to  a  bookcase,  and, 

[113] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

drawing  out  a  volume,  turned  the  pages  ab 
sently.  Without  reading  a  word,  she  came 
back  and  looked  the  man  squarely  in  the  face. 

"Will  denying  yourself  help  the  world  to 
evolve  ?  " 

"I  think  so." 

"How?" 

"My  determination  makes  me  a  positive 
force.  It  is  my  Karma  for  good,  that  makes 
my  child  stronger  to  do  things." 

"  But  you  have  no  child,"  —  swiftly. 

Their  eyes  met  again  without  faltering. 

"I  shall  have — sometime." 

Silence  fell  upon  them. 

"  Where  were  you  a  century  ago  ? "  digressed 
the  woman. 

"I  wasn't  born." 

"  Where  will  your  child  be  a  hundred  years 
from  now  ? " 

"Dead  likewise,  probably;  but  the  force  for 
good,  the  Karma  of  the  life,  will  be  passed  on 
and  remain  in  the  world." 

Unconsciously  they  both  rose  to  their  feet. 

"  Was  man  always  on  the  earth  ? "  she  asked. 

[114] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

The  question  was  answered  almost  before 
spoken. 

"No." 

"Will  he  always  be  here  ?" 

"  Science  says  *  no.' ' 

The  woman  came  a  step  forward  until  they 
almost  touched. 

"  What  then  becomes  of  your  life  of  denial  ? " 
she  challenged. 

"  You  make  it  hard  for  me,"  said  the  man, 
simply. 

"  But  am  I  not  right  ? "  She  came  toward 
him  passionately.  "  I  come  near  you,  and  you 
start."  She  laid  her  hand  on  his.  "I  touch 
you,  and  your  eyes  grow  warm.  Both  our 
hearts  beat  more  quickly.  ,  Look  at  the  sun 
shine  !  It 's  brighter  when  we  're  so  close  to 
gether.  What  of  life?  It's  soon  gone  —  and 
then  ?  What  of  convention  that  says  '  no '  ? 
It's  but  a  farce  that  gives  the  same  thing  we 
ask  —  at  the  price  of  a  few  words  of  mummery. 
Our  strongest  instincts  of  nature  call  for  each 
other.  Why  shouldn't  we  obey  them  when 
we  wish  ? "  She  hesitated,  and  her  voice  be- 

[115] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

came  tender.  "We  would  be  very  happy  to 
gether.  Won't  you  come  ? " 

The  man  broke  away  almost  roughly. 

"  Don't  you  know,"  he  demanded,  "  it 's  mad 
ness  for  us  to  be  talking  like  this  ?  We  '11  be 
taking  it  seriously,  and  then  —  " 

The  woman  made  a  swift  gesture  of  protest. 

"  Don't.  Let 's  be  honest  —  with  each  other, 
at  least.  I  'm  tired  of  pretending  to  be  other 
than  I  am.  Why  did  you  say  '  being  true  to 
my  husband '  ?  You  know  it 's  mockery.  Is  it 
being  true  to  live  with  a  man  I  hate  because 
man's  law  demands  it,  rather  than  true  to  you 
whom  Nature's  law  sanctions  ?  Don't  speak  to 
me  of  society's  right  and  wrong  !  I  despise  it. 
There  is  no  other  tribunal  than  Nature,  and 
Nature  says  *  Come.'" 

The  man  sat  down  slowly  and  dropped  his 
head  wearily  into  his  hands. 

"  I  say  again,  I  cannot.  I  respect  you  too 
much.  We  're  intoxicated  now  being  together. 
In  an  hour,  after  we  're  separate  —  " 

She  broke  in  on  him  passionately. 

"Do  you  think  a  woman  says  what  I  have 
said  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  ?  Do  you  think 

[116] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

I  merely  happened  to  see  you  to-day,  merely 
happened  to  say  what  I  Ve  said  ?  You  know 
better.  This  has  been  coming  for  months.  I 
fought  it  hard  at  first;  with  convention,  with 
your  idea  of  right  and  wrong.  Now  I  laugh 
at  them  both.  Life  is  life,  and  short,  and  be 
yond  is  darkness.  Think  what  atoms  we  are; 
and  we  struggle  so  hard.  Our  life  that  seems 
to  us  so  short  —  and  so  long  !  A  thousand, 
perhaps  ten  thousand  such,  end  to  end,  and  we 
have  the  life  of  a  world.  And  what  is  that  ? 
A  cycle  !  A  thing  self-created,  self-destruc 
tive:  then  of  human  life — nothingness.  Oh, 
it 's  humorous  !  Our  life,  a  ten  thousandth 
part  of  that  nothingness;  and  so  full  of  tiny 
—  great  struggles  and  worries  !"  She  was 
silent  a  moment,  her  throat  trembling,  a  multi 
tude  of  expressions  shifting  swiftly  on  her 
face. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  God  ? "  she  questioned 
suddenly. 

"  I  hardly  know.    There  must  be—" 
"  Don't  you  suppose,  then,  He 's  laughing  at 
us  now  ?"    She  hesitated  again  and  then  went 
on,  almost  unconsciously.     "I  had  a  dream  a 
[1171 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

few  nights  ago."  The  voice  was  low  and  very 
soft.  "  It  seemed  I  was  alone  in  a  desert  place, 
and  partial  darkness  was  about  me.  I  was 
conscious  only  of  listening  and  wondering,  for 
out  of  the  shadow  came  sounds  of  human  suf 
fering.  I  waited  with  my  heart  beating 
strangely.  Gradually  the  voices  grew  louder, 
until  I  caught  the  meaning  of  occasional  words 
and  distinctly  saw  coming  toward  me  the  figure 
of  a  man  and  a  woman  bearing  a  great  burden, 
a  load  so  great  that  both  together  bent  beneath 
the  weight  and  sweat  stood  thick  upon  their 
brows.  The  edges  of  the  burden  were  very 
sharp  so  that  the  hands  of  the  man  and  the 
woman  bled  from  the  wounds  and  their  shoul 
ders  were  torn  grievously  where  the  load  had 
shifted:  those  of  the  woman  more  than  the 
man,  for  she  bore  more  of  the  weight.  I 
marvelled  at  the  sight. 

"  Suddenly  an  intense  brightness  fell  about 
me  and  I  saw,  near  and  afar,  other  figures  each 
bearing  similar  burdens.  The  light  passed 
away,  and  I  drew  near  the  man  and  questioned 
him. 

[118] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"  'What  rough  load  is  that  you  carry  ? '  I 
asked. 

"  *  The  burden  of  conventionality,'  answered 
the  man,  wearily  and  with  a  note  of  surprise 
in  his  voice. 

"  'Why  do  you  bear  it  needlessly  ? '  I  remon 
strated. 

"'We  dare  not  drop  it,'  said  the  woman, 
hopelessly,  '  lest  that  light,  which  is  the  search 
light  of  public  opinion,  return,  showing  us  dif 
ferent  from  the  others.' 

"Even  as  she  spoke  the  illumination  again 
fell  upon  us,  and  by  its  brightness  I  saw  a  drop 
of  blood  gather  slowly  from  the  wounds  on  the 
woman's  hand  and  fall  into  the  dust  at  her 
feet." 

A  silence  fell  upon  the  inmates  of  the  tiny 
muffled  office. 

"  But  the  burden  isn't  useless,"  said  the  man, 
gently.  "The  condemnation  of  society  is  an 
hourly  reality.  From  the  patronage  of  others 
we  live.  The  sun  burns  us,  but  we  submit,  for 
in  return  it  gives  life." 

The  woman  arose  with  an  abrupt  movement, 
and  looked  down  at  him  coldly. 

[119], 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Are  you  a  man,  and  use  those  arguments  ? " 
An  expression  akin  to  contempt  formed  about 
her  mouth.  "  Are  you  afraid  of  a  united  voice 
the  individuals  of  which  you  despise  ? " 

The  first  hint  of  restrained  passion  was  in 
the  answering  voice. 

"  You  taunt  me  in  safety,  for  you  know  I 
love  you."  He  looked  up  at  her  unhesitatingly. 
"Man's  law  is  artificial,  that  I  know;  but  it's 
made  for  conditions  which  are  artificial,  and 
for  such  it 's  right.  Were  we  as  in  the  begin 
ning,  Nature's  law,  which  beside  the  law  of  man 
is  no  law,  would  be  right;  but  we're  of  the 
world  as  it  is  now.  Things  are  as  they  are,  and 
we  must  conform  or  pay  the  price."  He  hesi 
tated.  His  face  settled  back  into  a  mask.  "  And 
that  price  of  non-conformity  is  too  high,"  he 
completed  steadily. 

The  eyes  of  the  woman  blazed  and  her  hands 
tightened  convulsively. 

"Oh,  you're  frozen  —  fossilized,  man!  I 
called  you  man  !  You  're  not  a  man  at  all,  but 
a  nineteenth  century  machine  !  You  're  run 
like  a  motor,  from  a  power  house ;  by  the  force 
of  conventional  thought,  over  wires  of  red 
[120] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

tape.  Fie  on  you  !  I  thought  to  meet  a  human 
being,  not  a  lifeless  thing."  She  looked  at  him 
steadily,  her  chin  in  the  air,  a  world  of  scorn 
in  her  face.  "  Go  on  sweating  beneath  the  use 
less  load  !  Go  on  building  your  structure  of 
artificiality  that  ends  centuries  from  now  in 
nothingness  !  Here 's  happiness  to  you  in  your 
empty  life  of  self-effacement,  with  your  ma 
chine  prompted  acts,  years  considered  ! "  With 
out  looking  at  him,  one  hand  made  scornful 
motion  of  dismissal.  ' '  Good-bye,  ghost  of  man ; 
I  wash  my  hands  of  you." 

"  Wait,  Eleanor  ! "  The  man  sprang  to  his 
feet,  the  mask  lifting  from  his  face,  and  there 
stood  revealed  a  multitude  of  emotions,  unseen 
of  the  world,  that  flashed  from  the  depths  of 
his  brown  eyes  and  quivered  in  the  angles  of 
his  mouth.  He  came  quickly  over  and  took  her 
hand  between  his  own. 

"I'm  proud  of  you,"  —  a  world  of  tender 
ness  was  in  his  voice  —  "unspeakably  proud  — 
for  I  love  you.  I  Ve  done  my  best  to  keep  us 
apart,  yet  all  the  time  I  believed  with  you. 
Xature  is  higher  than  man,  and  no  power  on 
earth  can  prove  it  otherwise."  He  looked 

[121] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

into  the  softest  of  brown  eyes,  and  his  voice 
trembled.  "Beside  you  the  world  is  nothing. 
Its  approval  or  its  condemnation  are  things  to 
be  laughed  at.  With  you  I  challenge  conven 
tionality —  society  —  everything."  He  bent 
over  her  hand  almost  reverently  and  touched 
it  softly  with  his  lips. 

"Farewell — until  I  come,"  he  said. 


[122] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 


CHAPTER  II  —  THE  LEAP 

A  MAN  and  a  woman  emerged  from  the 
dilapidated  day-car  as  it  drew  up  before 
the  tiny,  sanded  station  which  marked  the 
terminus  of  the  railway.  The  man  was  tall, 
clean-shaven,  quick  of  step  and  of  glance.  The 
woman  was  likewise  tall,  well-gloved,  and, 
strange  phenomenon  at  a  country  station,  car 
ried  no  parcels. 

Though  easily  the  centre  of  attention,  the 
couple  were  far  from  being  alone.  On  the 
contrary,  the  car  and  platform  fairly  swarmed 
with  humanity.  Men  mostly  composed  the 
throng  that  alighted  —  big,  weather-stained 
fellows  in  rough  jeans  and  denims.  In  the 
background,  as  spectators  moved  or  lounged  a 
sprinkling  of  others :  thinner,  lighter,  enveloped 
in  felt,  woollen  and  buckskin,  a  fringe  of  heavy 
hair  peeping  out  at  their  backs  beneath  the 
broad  hat-brims.  A  few  women  were  inter 
mingled.  Coarsely  gowned,  sun-browned,  they 

[123] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

stood;  themselves  like  suns,  but  each  the  centre 
of  a  system  of  bleach-haired  minor  satellites.  It 
was  into  this  heterogeneous  mass  that  the  tall 
man  elbowed  his  way,  a  neat  grip  in  either  hand ; 
the  woman  following  closely  in  his  wake,  her 
skirts  carefully  lifted. 

Clear  of  the  out-flowing  stream  the  man  put 
down  the  satchels,  and  looked  over  the  heads  of 
the  motley  crowd  into  the  still  more  motley 
street  beyond.  Two  short  rows  of  one-story 
buildings,  distinctive  by  the  brightness  of  new 
lumber  on  their  sheltered  side,  bordered  a  nar 
row  street,  half  clogged  by  the  teams  of  visiting 
farmers.  Not  the  faintest  clue  to  a  hostelry 
was  visible,  and  the  eyes  of  the  man  wandered 
back,  interrupting  by  the  way  another  pair  of 
eyes  frankly  inquisitive. 

The  curious  one  was  short;  by  comparison 
his  face  was  still  shorter,  and  round.  From  his 
chin  a  tiny  tuft  of  whiskers  protruded,  like  the 
handle  of  a  gourd.  Never  was  countenance 
more  unmistakably  labelled  good-humored, 
Americanized  German. 

The  eyes  of  the  tall  man  stopped. 

[124] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"Is  there  a  hotel  in  this" — he  groped  for  a 
classification  —  "this  city?"  he  asked. 

A  rattling  sound,  startlingly  akin  to  the  agi 
tated  contents  of  over-ripe  vegetables,  came 
from  somewhere  in  the  internal  mechanism  of 
the  small  man.  Inferentially,  the  inquiry  was 
amusing  to  the  questioned,  likewise  the  immedi 
ately  surrounding  listeners  who  became  sud 
denly  silent,  gazing  at  the  stranger  with  the 
wonder  of  young  calves. 

At  length  the  innate  spirit  of  courtesy  in  the 
German  triumphed  over  his  amusement. 

"Hans  Becher  up  by  the  postoffice  takes 
folks  in."  The  inward  commotion  showed  in 
dications  of  resumption.  "I  never  heard, 
though,  that  he  called  his  place  a  hotel ! " 

"Thank  you,"  and  the  circle  of  silence 
widened. 

The  man  and  the  woman  walked  up  the 
street.  Beneath  their  feet  the  cotton  wood  side 
walk,  despite  its  newness,  was  warped  in  agony 
under  sun  and  storm.  Big  puddles  of  water 
from  a  recent  rain  stood  in  the  hollows  of  the 
roadway,  side  by  side  with  tufts  of  native 
grasses  fighting  bravely  for  life  against  the 

[125] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

intruder — Man.  A  fresh,  indescribable  odor 
was  in  their  nostrils  ;  an  odor  which  puzzled 
them  then,  but  which  later  they  learned  to 
recognize  and  never  forgot  —  the  pungent 
scent  of  buffalo  grass.  A  stillness,  deeper  than 
of  Sabbath,  unbelievable  to  urban  ears,  wrapped 
all  things,  and  united  with  an  absence  of  broken 
sky  line,  to  produce  an  all-pervading  sense  of 
loneliness. 

Hans  Becher  did  not  belie  his  name.  He  was 
very  German.  Likewise  the  little  woman  who 
courtesied  at  his  side.  Ditto  the  choice  assort 
ment  of  inquisitive  tow-heads,  who  stared  wide- 
eyed  from  various  corners.  He  shook  hands 
at  the  door  with  each  of  his  guests,  —  which 
action  also  was  unmistakably  German. 

"You  would  in  my  house  —  put  up,  you 
call  it  ? "  he  inquired  in  labored  English,  while 
the  little  woman  polished  two  speckless  chairs 
with  her  apron,  and  with  instinctive  photo 
graphic  art  placed  them  stiffly  side  by  side  for 
the  visitors. 

"  Yes,  we  'd  like  to  stay  with  you  for  a  time," 
corroborated  the  tall  man. 

The  little  German  ran  his  fingers  uncertainly 

[126] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

through  his  hair  for  a  moment;  then  his  round 
face  beamed. 

"We  should  then  become  to  each  other 
known.  Is  it  not  so  ? "  Without  pausing  for 
an  answer,  he  put  out  a  big  hand  to  each  in  turn. 
"I  am  Hans  Becher,  and  this  —  with  elaborate 
indications  —  "this  my  wife  is  —  Minna." 

Minna  courtesied  dutifully,  lower  than  be 
fore.  The  little  Bechers  were  not  classified, 
but  their  connection  was  apparent.  They 
calmly  sucked  their  thumbs. 

The  lords  of  creation  obviously  held  the  ros 
trum.  It  was  the  tall  man  who  responded. 

"My  name  is  Maurice,  Ichabod  Maurice." 
He  looked  at  the  woman,  his  companion,  from 
the  corner  of  his  eye.  "Allow  me,  Camilla,  to 
present  Mr.  Becher."  Then  turning  to  his 
hosts,  "Camilla  Maurice:  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Becher." 

The  tall  lady  shook  hands  with  each. 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  and  smiled 
a  moment  into  their  eyes.  Thus  Camilla  Mau 
rice  made  friends. 

There  were  a  few  low-spoken  words  in  Ger 
man  and  Minna  vanished. 
[127] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  She  will  dinner  make  ready,"  Hans  ex 
plained. 

The  visitors  sat  down  in  their  chairs,  with 
Hans  opposite  studying  them  narrowly ;  singly 
and  together. 

"  The  town  is  very  new,"  suggested  Ichabod. 

"  One  year  ago  it  was  not."  The  German's 
short  legs  crossed  each  other  nervously  and 
their  owner  seized  the  opportunity  to  make 
further  inspection.  "It  is  very  new,"  he  re 
peated  absently. 

Camilla  Maurice  stood  up. 

"  Might  we  wash,  Mr.  Becher  ? "  she  asked. 

The  ultimate  predicament  was  all  at  once 
staring  the  little  man  in  the  face. 

"  To  be  sure.  ...  I  might  have  known. 
.  .  .  You  will  a  room  —  desire."  .  .  . 
He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  inspira 
tion  came.  "Mr.  Maurice,"  he  motioned, 
"might  I  a  moment  with  you  —  speak  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Becher." 

The  German  saw  light,  and  fairly  beamed 
as  he  sought  the  safe  seclusion  of  the  doorway. 

"She  is  your  sister  or  cousin  —  nein?"  he 
asked. 

[128] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

There  was  the  faintest  suggestion  of  a  smile 
in  the  corners  of  Ichabod's  mouth. 

"  No,  she  is  neither  my  sister  nor  my  cousin, 
Mr.  Becher." 

Hans  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief:  it  had  been  a 
close  corner. 

"  She  is  your  wife.  One  must  know,"  and 
he  mopped  his  brow. 

"  Certainly  —  one  must  know,"  very  soberly. 

Alone  together  in  the  little  unfinished  room 
under  the  rafters,  the  woman  sat  down  on  the 
corner  of  the  bed,  physical  discomfort  forgotten 
in  feminine  curiosity. 

"  Those  names — where  did  you  get  them  ?" 
she  queried. 

"  They  came  to  me — at  the  moment,"  smiled 
the  man. 

"But  the  cold-blooded  horror  of  them! 
.  .  .  Ichabod!" 

"  The  glory  has  departed." 

His  companion  started,  and  the  smile  left 
the  man's  face. 

"  And  Camilla  ? " — slowly. 

"  Attendant  at  a  sacrifice." 

Of  a  sudden  the  room  became  very  still. 

[129] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Ichabod,  exploring,  discovered  a  tiny  wash 
basin  and  a  bucket  of  water. 

"  You  wished  to  wash,  Camilla  ? " 

The  woman  did  not  move. 

"They  were  very  kind"  —  she  looked 
through  the  window  with  the  tiny  panes: 
"  have  we  any  right  to — lie  to  them  ? " 

"We  have  not  lied." 

"Tacitly." 

"No.  I'm  Ichabod  Maurice  and  you're 
Camilla  Maurice.  We  have  not  lied." 

"But—" 

"  The  past  is  dead,  dead  ! " 

The  woman's  face  dropped  into  her  hands. 
Woman  ever  weeps  instinctively  for  the  dead. 

"You  are  sorry  that  it  is? — so?"  There 
was  no  bitterness  in  the  man's  voice,  but  he  did 
not  look  at  her,  and  Camilla  misunderstood. 

"  Sorry  ! "  She  came  close,  and  a  soft  warm 
face  pressed  tightly  against  his  face.  "  Sorry  ! " 
Her  arms  were  around  him.  "  Sorry  ! "  again 
repeated.  "  No  !  No  !  No  !  No,  without  end  ! 
I  'm  not  sorry.  I  'm  Camilla  Maurice,  the  hap 
piest  woman  in  the  world  ! " 

Later  they  utilized  the  tin  basin  and  the 

[1301 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

mirror  with  a  crack  across  its  centre.  Dinner 
was  waiting  when  they  went  below. 

To  a  casual  observer,  Hans  had  been  very 
idle  while  they  were  gone.  He  sat  absently  on 
the  doorstep,  watching  the  grass  that  grew 
almost  visibly  in  the  warm  spring  sun.  Occa 
sionally  he  tapped  his  forehead  with  his  finger 
tips.  It  helped  him  to  think,  and  just  now  he 
sadly  needed  assistance. 

"  Who  were  these  people,  anyway  ? "  he 
wondered.  Not  farmers,  certainly.  Farmers 
did  not  have  hands  that  dented  when  you 
pressed  them,  and  farmers'  wives  did  not  lift 
their  skirts  daintily  from  behind.  Hans  had 
been  very  observant  as  his  visitors  came  up  the 
muddy  street.  No,  that  was  not  the  way  of 
farmers'  wives:  they  took  hold  at  the  sides 
with  both  hands,  and  splashed  right  through 
on  their  heels. 

Hans  pulled  the  yellow  tuft  on  his  chin. 
What  could  they  be,  then  ?  Not  summer 
boarders.  It  was  only  early  spring;  and,  be 
sides,  although  the  little  German  was  an 
optimist,  even  he  could  not  imagine  any  one 
selecting  a  Dakota  prairie  for  an  outing. 

[131] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Yet  .  .  .  No,  they  could  not  be  summer 
boarders. 

But  what  then  ?  In  his  intensity  Hans 
actually  forgot  the  grass  and,  unfailing  pro 
ducer  of  inspiration,  ran  his  fingers  frantically 
through  his  mane. 

"Ah  — at  last— of  course!"  The  round 
face  beamed  and  a  hard  hand  smote  a  harder 
knee,  joyously.  That  he  had  not  remembered 
at  once  !  It  was  the  new  banker,  to  be  sure.  He 
would  tell  Minna,  quite  as  a  matter  of  fact,  for 
there  could  be  no  mistake.  Hank  Judge,  the 
machine  agent,  and  Eli  Stevens,  the  proprietor 
of  the  corner  store,  had  said  only  yesterday 
there  was  to  be  a  bank.  Looking  up  the  street 
the  little  man  spied  a  familiar  figure,  and 
sprang  to  his  feet  as  though  released  by  a 
spring,  his  hand  already  in  the  air.  There  was 
Hank  Judge,  now,  and  he  didn't  know  — 

"Dinner,  Hans,"  announced  Minna  at  his 
elbow. 

Holding  the  child  of  his  brain  hard  in  both 
hands  lest  it  should  escape  prematurely,  the 
little  German  went  inside  to  preside  over  a  re- 

[1321 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

past,  the  distinctively  German  incense  of  which 
ascended  most  appetizingly. 

Hans,  junior,  in  a  childish  treble,  spoke 
an  honest  little  German  blessing,  beginning 
"Mein  Fater  von Himmel" and  emphasized  by 
the  raps  of  Hans  senior's  knuckles  on  certain 
other  small  heads  to  keep  their  owners  quiet. 

"  Fresh  lettuce  and  radishes ! "  commented 
Camilla,  joyously. 

"  Raised  in  our  own  garden  hinein"  bobbed 
Minna,  in  ecstasy. 

"And  sauerkraut  —  "  began  Ichabod. 

"  From  cabbages  so  large,"  completed  Hans, 
spreading  his  arms  to  designate  an  imaginary 
vegetable  of  heroic  proportions. 

"  They  must  have  grown  very  fast  to  be  so 
large  in  May,"  commented  Camilla. 

Hans  and  Minna  exchanged  glances  —  pity 
ing,  superior  glances  —  such  as  we  give  behind 
the  backs  of  the  infirm,  or  the  very  old ;  and  the 
subject  of  vegetables  dropped. 

"A  great  country  for  a  bank,  this,"  com 
mented  Mr.  Becher,  with  infinite  finesse  and 
between  intermittent  puffs  at  a  hot  potato. 

"Is  that  so?" 

[  133  ] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Hans  nodded  violent  confirmation,  then 
words,  English  words,  being  valuable  to  him, 
he  came  quickly  to  the  test. 

"  You  will  build  for  the  bank  yourself,  is  it 
not  so?" 

It  was  not  the  German  and  Minna  who  ex 
changed  glances  this  time. 

"  No,  I  shall  not  build  for  the  bank  myself, 
Mr.  Becher." 

"You  will  rent,  perhaps?"  Hans's  faith 
was  beautiful. 

"  No,  I  shall  not  rent." 

The  German's  face  fell.  To  have  wasted  all 
that  thought ;  for  after  all  it  was  not  the  banker  ! 

Minna,  senior,  stared  in  surprise,  and  her  at 
tention  being  diverted,  Minna  the  younger 
seized  the  opportunity  to  inundate  herself  with 
a  cup  of  hot  coffee. 

The  spell  was  broken. 

"  I  'm  going  to  take  a  homestead,"  explained 
Ichabod. 

Hans's  fork  paused  in  mid-air  and  his  mouth 
forgot  to  close.  At  the  point  where  the  German 
struck,  the  earth  was  very  hard. 

"  So  ? "  he  interrogated,  weakly. 

[134] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

At  this  juncture  the  difference  between  the 
two  Minnas,  which  had  been  transferred  from1 
the  table  to  the  kitchen,  was  resumed;  and  al 
though  Ichabod  ate  the  remaining  kraut  to  the 
last  shred,  and  Camilla  talked  to  Hans  of  the 
Vaterland  in  his  native  German,  each  knew 
the  occasion  was  a  failure.  An  ideal  had  been 
raised,  the  ideal  of  a  Napoleon  of  finance,  a 
banker;  and  that  ideal  materializing,  lo  there 
stood  forth  a  farmer  !  Ach  Gott  von  Himmel! 

After  dinner  Hans  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
pointed  out  the  land-office.  Ichabod  thanked 
him,  and  under  the  impulse  of  habit  felt  in  his 
pocket  for  a  cigar.  None  was  there,  and  all  at 
once  he  remembered  Ichabod  Maurice  did  not 
smoke.  Strange  he  should  have  such  an  abom 
inable  inclination  to  do  so  just  then;  but  never 
theless  the  fact  remained.  Ichabod  Maurice 
never  had  smoked. 

He  started  up  the  street. 

A  small  man,  with  very  high  boots  and  a  very 
long  moustache,  sat  tipped  back  in  the  sun  in 
front  of  the  land-office.  He  was  telling  a  story  ; 
a  good  one,  judging  from  the  attention  of  the 
row  of  listeners.  He  grasped  the  chair  tightly 

[135] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

with  his  left  hand  while  his  right,  holding  a  cob 
pipe,  gesticulated  actively.  The  story  halted 
abruptly  as  Ichabod  came  up. 

"  Howdy  ! "  greeted  the  little  man. 

Maurice  nodded. 

"  Don't  let  me  interrupt  you,"  he  temporized. 

"  Not  at  all,"  courtesied  the  teller  of  stories, 
as  he  led  the  way  inside.  "  I  Ve  told  that  one 
until  I  'm  tired  of  it,  anyway."  He  tapped  the 
ashes  from  his  pipe-bowl,  meditatively.  "A 
fellow  has  to  kill  the  time  some  way,  though, 
you  know." 

*'  Yes,  I  know,"  acquiesced  Ichabod. 

The  agent  took  a  chair  behind  the  battered 
pine  desk,  and  pointed  to  another  opposite. 

"  Any  way  I  can  help  you  ? "  he  suggested. 

"Yes,"  answered  Maurice.  "I'm  thinking 
of  taking  a  homestead." 

The  agent  looked  his  visitor  up  and  down  and 
back  again;  then,  being  native  born,  his  surprise 
broke  forth  in  idiom. 

"  Well,  I  'm  jiggered  ! "  he  avowed. 

It  was  Ichabod's  turn  to  make  observation. 

"  I  believe  you;  you  look  it,"  he  corroborated 
at  length. 

[136] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

Again  the  little  man  stared ;  and  in  the  silence 
following,  a  hungry-looking  bird-dog  thrust  his 
thin  muzzle  in  at  the  door,  and  sniffed. 

"  Get  out,"  shouted  the  owner  at  the  intruder, 
adding  in  extenuation:  "I'm  busy."  He  cer 
tainly  was  "  jiggered." 

Ichabod  came  to  the  rescue. 

"  I  called  to  learn  how  one  goes  at  it  to  take 
a  claim,"  he  explained.  "  The  modus  operandi 
isn't  exactly  clear  in  my  mind." 

The  agent  braced  up  in  his  chair. 

"  I  suppose  you  '11  say  it 's  none  of  my  busi 
ness,"  he  commented,  "but  as  a  speculation 
you'd  do  a  lot  better  to  buy  up  the  claims  of 
poor  cusses  who  have  to  relinquish,  than  to 
settle  yourself." 

"  I  'm  not  speculating.  I  expect  to  build  a 
house,  and  live  here." 

"As  a  friend,  then,  let  me  tell  you  you'll 
never  stand  it."  A  stubby  thumb  made  motion 
up  the  narrow  street.  "  You  see  this  town.  I 
won't  say  what  it  is  —  you  realize  for  yourself; 
but  bad  as  it  is,  it 's  advanced  civilization  along 
side  of  the  country.  You  '11  have  to  go  ten  miles 
out  to  get  any  land  that's  not  taken."  He 
[137] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

stopped  and  lit  his  pipe.  "  Do  you  know  what 
it  means  to  live  alone  ten  miles  out  on  the 
prairie  ?" 

"  I  Ve  never  lived  in  the  country." 

"  I  '11  tell  you,  then,  what  it  means."  He  put 
down  his  pipe  and  looked  out  at  the  open  door. 
His  face  changed;  became  softer,  milder, 
younger.  His  voice,  when  he  spoke,  added  to 
the  impression  of  reminiscence,  bearing  an  al 
most  forgotten  tone  of  years  ago. 

"  The  prairie  ! "  he  apostrophized.  "  It 
means  the  loneliest  place  on  God's  earth.  It 
means  that  living  there,  in  life  you  bury  your 
self,  your  hopes,  your  ambitions.  It  means  you 
work  ever  to  forget  the  past  —  and  fail.  It 
means  self,  always ;  morning,  noon,  night ;  until 
the  very  solitude  becomes  an  incubus.  It  means 
that  in  time  you  die,  or,  from  being  a  man,  be 
come  as  the  cattle."  The  speaker  turned  for 
the  first  time  to  the  tall  man  before  him,  his  big 
blue  eyes  wide  open  and  round,  his  voice  an 
entreaty. 

"Don't  move  into  it,  man.  It's  death  and 
worse  than  death  to  such  as  you  !  You  're  too 
old  to  begin.  One  must  be  born  to  the  life; 

[138] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

must  never  have  known  another.  Don't  do  it, 
I  say." 

Ichabod  Maurice,  listening,  read  in  that  ap 
peal,  beneath  the  words,  the  wild,  unsatisfied 
tale  of  a  disappointed  human  life. 

"You  are  dissatisfied,  lonesome —  There 
was  a  time  years  ago  perhaps — " 

"  I  don't  know."  The  glow  had  passed  and 
the  face  was  old  again,  and  heavy.  "  I  remem 
ber  nothing.  I'm  dead,  dead."  He  drew  a 
rough  map  from  his  pocket  and  spread  it  out 
before  him. 

"  If  you  '11  move  close,  please,  I  '11  show  you 
the  open  lands." 

For  an  hour  he  explained  homesteads,  pre 
emptions  and  tree  claims,  and  the  method  of 
filing  and  proving  up.  At  parting,  Ichabod 
held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  advice,"  he  said. 

The  man  behind  the  desk  puffed  stolidly. 

"  But  don't  intend  to  follow  it,"  he  completed. 

Instinctively,  metaphor  sprang  to  the  lips  of 
Ichabod  Maurice. 

"A  small  speck  of  circumstance,  which  is 
near,  obliterates  much  that  is  in  the  distance." 

[189] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

He  turned  toward  the  door.  "I  shall  not  be 
alone." 

The  little  agent  smoked  on  in  silence  for 
some  minutes,  gazing  motionless  at  the  door 
way  through  which  Ichabod  had  passed  out. 
Again  the  lean  bird-dog  thrust  in  an  apologetic 
head,  dutifully  awaiting  recognition.  At  length 
the  man  sliook  his  pipe  clean,  and  leaned  back 
in  soliloquy. 

"Man,  woman,  human  nature;  habit,  soli 
tude,  the  prairie."  He  spoke  each  word  slowly, 
and  with  a  shake  of  his  head.  "  He 's  mad,  mad ; 
but  I  pity  him  "  —  a  pause  —  "  for  I  know." 

The  dog  whined  an  interruption  from  the 
doorway,  and  the  man  looked  up. 

"  Come  in,  boy,"  he  said,  in  recognition. 


[140]' 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 


CHAPTER  III  —  THE  WONDER  OF  PRAIRIE 

TCHABOD  and  Camilla  selected  their 
A  claim  together.  A  fair  day's  drive  it  was 
from  the  little  town;  a  half-mile  from  the 
nearest  neighbor,  a  Norwegian,  without  two- 
score  English  words  in  his  vocabulary.  Level 
it  was,  as  the  surface  of  a  lake  or  the  plane  of 
a  railroad  bed. 

Together,  too,  they  chose  the  spot  for  their 
home.  Camilla  sobbed  over  the  word;  but  she 
was  soon  dry-eyed  and  smiling  again.  After 
wards,  side  by  side,  they  did  much  journeying 
to  and  from  the  nearest  sawmill — each  trip 
through  a  day  and  a  night — thirty  odd  miles 
away.  The  mill  was  a  small,  primitive  affair, 
almost  lost  in  the  straggling  box-elders  and  soft 
maples  that  bordered  the  muddy  Missouri,  pro 
ducing,  amid  noisy  protestations,  the  most  de- 
spisable  of  all  lumber  on  the  face  of  the  globe  — 
twisting,  creeping,  crawling  cottonwood. 

Having  the  material  on  the  spot,  Ichabod 

[141] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

built  the  house  himself,  after  a  plan  never  be 
fore  seen  of  man;  joint  product  of  his  and 
Camilla's  brains.  It  took  a  month  to  complete ; 
and  in  the  meantime,  each  night  they  threw 
their  tired  bodies  on  the  brown  earth,  indiffer 
ent  to  the  thin  canvas,  which  alone  was  spread 
between  them  and  the  stars. 

Too  utterly  weary  for  immediate  sleep,  they 
listened  to  the  sounds  of  animal  life  —  wholly 
unfamiliar  to  ears  urban  trained  —  as  they  stood 
out  distinct  by  contrast  with  a  silence  otherwise 
absolute  as  the  grave. 

.  .  .  The  sharp  bark  of  the  coyote,  near  or 
far  away;  soft  as  an  echo,  the  gently  cadenced 
tremolo  of  the  prairie  owl.  To  these,  the  mere 
opening  numbers  of  the  nightly  concerts,  the 
two  exotics  would  listen  wonderingly ;  then,  of  a 
sudden,  typical,  indescribable,  lonely  as  death, 
there  would  boom  the  cry  which,  as  often 
as  it  was  repeated,  recalled  to  Ichabod's  mind 
the  words  of  the  little  man  in  the  land-office, 
"loneliest  sound  on  earth  "  —  the  sound  which, 
once  heard,  remains  forever  vivid  —  the  night 
call  of  the  prairie  rooster.  Even  now,  new  and 
fascinating  as  it  all  was,  at  the  last  wailing  cry 

[142] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

the  two  occupants  of  the  tent  would  reach  out 
in  the  darkness  until  their  hands  met.  Not  till 
then  would  they  sleep. 

In  May,  they  finished  and  moved  their  few 
belongings  into  the  odd  little  two-room  house. 
True  to  instinct,  Ichabod  had  built  a  fireplace, 
though  looking  in  any  direction  until  the  earth 
met  the  sky,  not  a  tree  was  visible ;  and  Camilla 
had  added  a  cozy  reading  corner,  which  soon 
developed  into  a  sleeping  corner,—  out-of-door 
occupations  in  sun  and  wind  being  insurmount 
able  obstacles  to  mental  effort. 

But  what  matter  !  One  straggling  little  folio, 
the  local  newspaper,  made  its  way  into  the 
corner  each  week  —  and  that  was  all.  They  had 
cut  themselves  off  from  the  world,  deliberately, 
irrevocably.  It  was  but  natural  that  they 
should  sleep.  All  dead  things  sleep  ! 

Month  after  month  slipped  by,  and  the  first 
ripple  of  local  excitement  and  curiosity  born  of 
their  advent  subsided.  Ichabod  knew  nothing 
of  farming,  but  to  learn  was  simple.  It  needed 
only  that  he  watch  what  his  neighbors  were 
doing,  and  proceed  to  do  likewise.  He  learned 
soon  to  hold  a  breaking-plough  in  the  tough 

[143] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

prairie  sod,  and  to  swear  mightily  when  it 
balked  at  an  unusually  tough  root.  As  well, 
he  came  to  know  the  oily  feel  of  flax  as  he  scat 
tered  it  by  hand  over  the  brown  breaking.  Later 
he  learned  the  smell  of  buckwheat  blossoms,  and 
the  delicate  green  coloring  of  sod  corn,  greener 
by  contrast  with  its  dark  background. 

Nor  was  Camilla  idle.  The  dresses  she  had 
brought  with  her,  dainty  creations  of  foreign 
make,  soon  gave  way  to  domestic  productions 
of  gingham  and  print.  In  these,  the  long  brown 
hands  neatly  gloved,  she  struggled  with  a  tiny 
garden,  becoming  in  ratio  as  passed  the  weeks, 
warmer,  browner,  and  healthier. 

"  Are  you  happy  ? "  asked  Ichabod,  one  day, 
observing  her  thus  amid  the  fruits  of  her  hands. 

Camilla  hesitated.  Catching  her  hand, 
Ichabod  lifted  her  chin  so  that  their  eyes  met. 

"  Tell  me,  are  you  happy  ? "  he  repeated. 

Another  pause,  though  her  eyes  did  not 
falter. 

"  Happier  than  I  ever  thought  to  be."  She 
touched  his  sleeve  tenderly.  "But  not  com 
pletely  so,  for  —  "  she  was  not  looking  at  him 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

,  —  "for  I  love  you,  and  —  and  —  I'm  a 


now 


woman." 


They  said  no  more;  and  though  Ichabod  went 
back  to  his  team,  it  was  not  to  work.  For  many 
minutes  he  stood  motionless,  a  new  problem  of 
right  and  wrong  throbbing  in  his  brain. 

Fall  came  slowly,  bringing  the  drowsy,  hazy 
days  of  so-called  Indian  Summer.  It  was  the 
season  of  threshing,  and  all  day  long  to  the 
drowse  of  the  air  was  added,  near  and  afar,  all- 
pervading  through  the  stillness,  the  sleepy  hum 
of  the  separator.  Typical  voice  of  the  prairie 
was  that  busy  drone,  penetrating  to  the  ears  as 
the  ubiquitous  odor  of  the  buffalo  grass  to  the 
nostril,  again  bearing  resemblance  in  that,  once 
heard,  memory  would  reproduce  the  sound 
until  recollection  was  no  more. 

Winter  followed,  and  they,  who  had  thought 
the  earth  quiet  before,  found  it  still  now  indeed. 
Even  the  voice  of  the  prairie-chicken  was 
hushed;  only  the  sharp  knife-like  cutting  of 
spread  wings  told  of  a  flock's  passage  at  night. 
The  level  country,  mottled  white  with  occa 
sional  drifts,  and  brown  from  spots  blown  bare 

[145] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

by  the  wind,  stretched  out  seemingly  intermi 
nable,  until  the  line  of  earth  and  sky  met. 

Idle  perforce,  the  two  exotics  would  stand  for 
hours  in  the  sunshine  of  their  open  doorway, 
shading  their  eyes  from  the  glare  and  looking 
out,  out  into  the  distance  that  was  as  yet  only  a 
name  —  and  that  the  borrowed  name  of  an 
Indian  tribe. 

"  What  a  country ! "  Camilla  would  say, 
struck  each  time  anew  with  a  never-ending 
wonder. 

'  Yes,  what  a  country,"  Ichabod  would  echo, 
unconscious  that  he  had  repeated  the  same 
words  in  the  same  way  a  score  of  times  before. 

In  January,  a  blizzard  settled  upon  them,  and 
for  two  days  and  nights  they  took  turns  keeping 
the  big  kitchen  stove  red  hot.  The  West  knows 
no  such  storms,  now.  Man  has  not  only  changed 
the  face  of  the  earth,  but,  in  so  doing,  has  an 
nihilated  that  terror  of  the  past, — the  Dakota 
blizzard. 

In  those  days,  though,  it  was  very  real,  as 
Ichabod  learned.  He  had  prepared  for  winter, 
by  hauling  a  huge  pile  of  cordwood  and  stacking 
it,  as  a  protection  to  windward,  the  full  length 

[146] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

of  the  little  cabin,  thinking  the  spot  always  ac 
cessible;  but  he  had  builded  in  ignorance. 

The  snow  first  commenced  falling  in  the 
afternoon.  By  the  next  morning  the  tiny  house 
was  buried  to  the  window  sashes.  Looking  out, 
there  could  be  seen  but  an  indistinct  slanting 
white  wall,  scarcely  ten  feet  away:  a  screen 
through  which  the  sunlight  filtered  dimly,  like 
the  solemn  haze  of  a  church.  The  earth  was  not 
silent,  now.  The  falling  of  the  sleet  and  snow 
was  as  the  striking  of  fine  shot,  and  the  sound 
of  the  wind  a  steady  unceasing  moan,  resem 
bling  the  sigh  of  a  big  dynamo  at  a  distance. 

Slowly,  inch  by  inch,  during  that  day  the 
snow  crept  up  the  window  panes  until,  before 
the  coming  of  darkness  without,  it  fell  within. 
Banked  though  they  were  on  three  sides,  on  the 
fourth  side,  unprotected,  the  cold  penetrated 
bitterly,  —  a  cold  no  living  thing  could  with 
stand  without  shelter.  Then  it  was  that 
Ichabod  and  Camilla  feared  to  sleep,  and 
that  the  long  vigil  began. 

By  the  next  morning  there  was  no  light  from 
the  windows.  The  snow  had  drifted  level  with 
the  eaves.  Ichabod  stood  in  the  narrow  window 

[147] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

frame,  and,  lowering  the  glass  from  the  top, 
beat  a  hole  upward  with  a  pole  to  admit  air. 
Through  the  tunnel  thus  formed  there  filtered 
the  dull  gray  light  of  day:  and  at  its  end,  ob 
structing,  there  stood  revealed  a  slanting  drab 
wall,  —  a  condensed  milky  way. 

The  storm  was  yet  on,  and  he  closed  the 
window.  To  get  outside  for  fuel  that  day  was 
impossible,  so  with  an  axe  Ichabod  chopped  a 
hole  through  the  wall  into  the  big  pile,  and  on 
wood  thus  secured  sawed  steadily  in  the  tiny 
kitchen,  while  the  kerosene  lamp  at  his  side 
sputtered,  and  the  fire  crackled  in  a  silence,  like 
that  surrounding  a  hunted  animal  in  its  den. 

Many  usual  events  had  occurred  in  the  lives 
of  the  wandering  Ichabod  and  Camilla,  which 
had  been  forgotten;  but  the  memory  of  that 
day,  the  overwhelming,  incontestible  knowledge 
of  the  impotency  of  wee,  restless,  inconsequent 
man,  they  were  never  to  forget. 

"  Tiny,  tiny,  mortal ! "  laughed  the  storm. 
"  To  think  you  would  combat  Nature,  would 
defy  her,  the  power  of  which  I  am  but  one  of 
many,  many  manifestations  ! "  And  it  laughed 
again.  The  two  prisoners,  listening,  their  ears 

[148] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

to  the  tunnel,  heard  the  sound,  and  felt  to  the 
full  its  biting  mockery. 

Next  day  the  siege  was  raised,  and  the  sun 
smiled  as  only  the  sun  can  smile  upon  miles  and 
miles  of  dazzling  snow  crystals.  Ichabod 
climbed  out  —  by  way  of  the  window  route  — 
and  worked  for  hours  with  a  shovel  before  he 
had  a  channel  from  the  tiny,  submerged  shanty 
to  the  light  of  day  beyond.  Then  together  he 
and  Camilla  stood  side  by  side  in  the  doorway, 
as  they  had  done  so  many  times  before,  looking 
about  them  at  the  boundless  prairie,  drifted  in 
waves  of  snow  like  the  sea :  the  wonder  of  it  all, 
ever  new,  creeping  over  them. 

"  What  a  country  ! "  voiced  Camilla. 

"  What  a  country,  indeed,"  echoed  Ichabod. 

"  Lonely  and  mysterious  as  Death." 

"  Yes,  as  Death  or— Life." 


[149] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  IV  —  A  REVELATION 


,  unchanging  automaton,  moved  on 
*•  until  late  spring.  Paradox  of  nature,  the 
warm  brown  tints  of  chilly  days  gave  place 
under  the  heat  of  slanting  suns  to  the  cool  green 
of  summer.  All  at  once,  sudden  as  though 
autochthonal,  there  appeared  meadow-larks  and 
blackbirds:  dead  weeds  or  man-erected  posts 
serving  in  lieu  of  trees  as  vantage  points  from 
which  to  sing.  Ground  squirrels  whistled  cheer 
ily  from  newly  broken  fields  and  roadways. 
Coveys  of  quail,  tame  as  barn-yard  fowls, 
played  about  the  beaten  paths,  and  ran  patter 
ing  in  the  dust  ahead  of  each  passing  team. 
Again,  from  its  winter's  rest,  lonely,  uncertain 
as  to  distance,  came  the  low,  booming  call  of  the 
prairie  rooster.  Nature  had  awakened,  and  the 
joy  of  that  awakening  was  upon  the  land. 

Of  a  morning  in  May  the  faded,  dust-covered 
day-coach  drew  in  at  the  tiny  prairie  village.  A 
little  man  alighted.  He  stood  a  moment  on  the 

[150] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

platform,  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  a  big 
black  cigar  between  his  teeth,  and  looked  out 
over  the  town.  The  coloring  of  the  short  strag 
gling  street  was  more  weather-stained  than 
a  year  ago,  yet  still  very  new,  and  the  newcomer 
smiled  as  he  looked;  a  big  broad  smile  that 
played  about  his  lips,  turning  up  the  corners  of 
his  brown  moustache,  showing  a  flash  of  white 
teeth,  and  lighting  a  pair  of  big  blue  eyes  which 
lay,  like  a  woman's,  beneath  heavy  lashes.  In 
youth,  that  smile  would  have  been  a  grin;  but 
it  was  no  grin  now.  The  man  was  far  from 
youth,  and  about  the  mouth  and  eyes  were  deep 
lines,  which  told  of  one  who  knew  of  the  world. 

Slowly  the  smile  disappeared,  and  as  it  faded 
the  little  man  puffed  harder  at  the  cigar.  Evi 
dently  something  he  particularly  wished  to 
explain  would  not  become  clear  to  his  mind. 

"Of  all  places,"  he  soliloquized,  "to  have 
chosen — this  !" 

He  started  up  the  street,  over  the  irregular 
warping  sidewalk. 

"  Hotel,  sir-r  ? "  The  formula  was  Ameri 
can,  the  trilling  r's  distinctly  German. 

The  traveller  turned  at  the  sound,  to  make 

[151] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

acquaintance  with  Hans  Becher;  for  it  was 
Hans  Becher,  very  much  metamorphosed  from 
the  retiring  German  of  a  year  ago.  He  made 
the  train  regularly  now. 

The  small  man  nodded  and  held  out  his  grip ; 
together  they  walked  up  the  street.  In  front 
of  the  hotel  they  stopped,  and  the  stranger 
pulled  out  his  watch. 

"  Is  there  a  livery  here  ? "  he  asked. 

"Yes;  at  the  street  end  —  the  side  to  the  left 
hand." 

"Thanks.  I'll  be  back  with  you  this 
evening." 

Hans  Becher  stared,  open-mouthed,  as  the 
man  moved  off. 

"  You  will  not  to  dinner  return  ? " 

The  little  man  stopped,  and  smiled  without 
apparent  reason. 

"  No.  Keep  the  grip.  I  expect  to  lunch," 
again  he  smiled  without  provocation,  "else 
where.  By  the  way,"  he  added,  as  an  after 
thought,  "  can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Maurice 
—  Ichabod  Maurice  —  lives  ?  " 

The  German  nodded  violent  confirmation  of 
a  direction  indicated  by  his  free  hand. 

[152] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"  Straight  out,  eight  miles.  Little  house  with 
paint" — strong  emphasis  on  the  last — fc white 
paint." 

"  Thanks." 

Hans  saw  the  escape  of  an  opportunity. 

"  They  are  friends  of  yours,  perhaps  ? "  —  he 
grasped  at  it. 

The  little  man  did  not  turn,  but  the  smile  that 
seemed  almost  a  habit,  sprang  to  his  face. 

"Yes,  they're  —  friends  of  mine,"  he  cor 
roborated. 

Hans,  personification  of  knowledge,  stood 
bobbing  on  the  doorstep,  until  the  trail  of  smoke 
vanished  from  sight,  then  brought  the  satchel 
inside  and  set  it  down  hard. 

"Her  brother  has  come,"  he  announced  to 
the  wide-eyed  Minna. 

"Wessen  Bruder?"  Minna  was  obviously 
excited,  as  attested  by  the  lapse  from  English. 

"  Are  we  not  now  Americans  naturalized  ? " 
rebuked  Hans,  icily.  Suddenly  he  thawed. 
"Whose  brother!  The  brother  of  Camilla 
Maurice,  to  be  sure." 

Minna  scrutinized  the  bag,  curiously. 

[153] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"Did  he  so — inform  you  ?"  she  questioned 
unadvisedly. 

"  It  was  not  necessary.    I  have  eyes." 

Offended  masculine  dignity  clumped  noisily 
toward  the  door;  instinctive  feminine  diplomacy 
sprang  to  the  rescue. 

"  You  are  so  wise,  Hans  ! " 

And  Peace,  sweet  Peace,  returned  to  the 
household  of  Becher. 

Meanwhile  the  little  man  had  secured  a 
buggy,  and  was  jogging  out  into  the  country. 
He  drove  very  leisurely,  looking  about  him  curi 
ously.  Of  a  sudden  he  threw  down  his  cigar, 
and  sniffed  at  the  air. 

"  Buffalo  grass,  I  '11  wager  !  I  've  heard  of 
it,"  and  in  the  instinctive  action  of  every  new 
comer  he  sniffed  again. 

Camilla  Maurice  sat  in  front  of  her  tiny 
house,  the  late  morning  sun  warm  about  her; 
one  hand  supported  a  book,  slanted  carefully  to 
avoid  the  light,  the  other  held  the  crank  of  a 
barrel-churn.  As  she  read,  she  turned  steadily, 
the  monotonous  chug !  chug !  of  the  tumbling 
cream  drowning  all  other  sounds. 

Suddenly  the  shadow  of  a  horse  passed  her 

[154] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

and  a  rough  livery  buggy  stopped  at  her  side. 
She  looked  up.  Instinctively  her  hand  dropped 
the  crank,  and  her  face  turned  white;  then 
equally  involuntarily  she  returned  to  her  work, 
and  the  chug  !  chug !  continued. 

"Does  Ichabod  Maurice,"  drawling  empha 
sis  on  the  name,  "  live  here  ? "  asked  a  voice. 

"He  does."  Camilla's  chin  was  trembling; 
her  answer  halted  abruptly. 

The  man  looked  down  at  her,  genuine  amuse 
ment  depicted  upon  his  face. 

"Won't  you  please  stop  your  work  for  a 
moment,  Camilla  ? " 

With  the  name,  one  hand  made  swift  move 
ment  of  deprecation.  "  Pardon  if  I  mistake, 
but  I  take  it  you  're  Camilla  Maurice  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  'm  Camilla  Maurice." 

"  Quite  so  !  You  see,  Ichabod  and  I  were  old 
chums  together  in  college — all  that  sort  of 
thing;  consequently  I've  always  wanted  to 
meet—" 

The  woman  stood  up.  Her  face  still  was 
very  white,  but  her  chin  did  not  tremble  now. 

"  Let 's  stop  this  farce,"  she  insisted.  "  What 
is  it  you  wish  ?  " 

[155] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

The  man  in  the  buggy  again  made  a  motion 
of  deprecation. 

"  I  was  just  about  to  say,  that  happening  to 
be  in  town,  and  incidentally  hearing  the  name, 
I  wondered  if  it  were  possible.  .  .  .  But, 
pardon,  I  haven't  introduced  myself.  Allow 
me  — "  and  he  bowed  elaborately.  "Arnold, 
Asa  Arnold.  .  .  .  You  've  heard  Ichabod 
mention  my  name,  perhaps  ? " 

The  woman  held  up  her  hand. 

"  Again  I  ask,  what  do  you  wish  ?  " 

"  Since  you  insist,  first  of  all  I  'd  like  to 
speak  a  moment  with  Ichabod."  His  face 
changed  suddenly.  "For  Heaven's  sake, 
Eleanor,  if  he  must  alter  his  name,  why  did  he 
choose  such  a  barbaric  substitute  as  Ichabod  ? " 

"  Were  he  here  "  —  evenly  —  "  he  'd  doubtless 
explain  that  himself." 

"  He 's  not  here,  then  ? "  No  banter  in  the 
voice  now. 

"  Never  fear  "—  quickly  —  "  he  '11  return." 

A  moment  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes; 
challengingly,  as  they  had  looked  unnumbered 
times  before. 

"As  you  suggest,  Eleanor,"  said  the  man, 

[156] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

slowly, "  this  farce  has  gone  far  enough.  Where 
may  I  tie  this  horse  ?  I  wish  to  speak  with 
you." 

Camilla  pointed  to  a  post,  and  silently  went 
toward  the  house.  Soon  the  man  followed  her, 
stopping  a  moment  to  take  a  final  puff  at  his 
cigar  before  throwing  it  away. 

Within  the  tiny  kitchen  they  sat  opposite, 
a  narrow  band  of  warm  spring  sunshine  creep 
ing  in  at  the  open  door  separating  them.  The 
woman  looked  out  over  the  broad  prairie,  her 
color  a  trifle  higher  than  usual,  the  lids  of  her 
eyes  a  shade  nearer  together  —  that  was  all. 
The  man  crossed  his  legs  and  waited,  looking  so 
small  that  he  seemed  almost  boyish.  In  the  si 
lence,  the  drone  of  feeding  poultry  came  from 
the  back-yard,  and  the  sleepy  breathing  of  the 
big  collie  on  the  steps  sounded  plainly  through 
the  room. 

A  minute  passed.  Neither  spoke.  Then, 
with  a  shade  of  annoyance,  the  man  shifted  in 
his  chair. 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  'd  have  something 
you  wished  to  say.  If  not,  however — "  He 
paused  meaningly. 

[157] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"You  said  a  moment  ago,  you  wished  to 
speak  to  me" 

"  As  usual,  you  make  everything  as  difficult 
as  possible."  The  shade  of  annoyance  became 
positive.  "  Such  being  the  case,  we  may  as  well 
come  to  the  point.  How  soon  do  you  contem 
plate  bringing  this  —  this  incident  to  a  close  ?" 

"The  answer  to  that  question  concerns  me 
alone." 

An  ordinary  man  would  have  laughed;  but 
Asa  Arnold  was  not  an  ordinary  man — not  at 
this  time. 

"  As  your  husband,  I  can't  agree  with  you." 

Camilla  Maurice  took  up  his  words,  quickly. 

"You  mistake.  You're  the  husband  of 
Eleanor  Owen.  I  'm  not  she." 

The  man  went  on  calmly,  as  though  there  had 
been  no  interruption. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  you,  Eleanor. 
I  don't  think  I  have  been  hard  on  you.  A  year 
has  passed,  and  I  Ve  known  you  were  here  from 
the  first  day.  But  this  sort  of  thing  can't  go 
on  indefinitely;  there's  a  limit,  even  to  good 
nature.  I  ask  you  again,  when  are  you  coming 
back?" 

[158] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

The  woman  looked  at  her  companion,  for  the 
first  time  steadily.  Even  she,  who  knew  him  so 
well,  felt  a  shade  of  wonder  at  the  man  who 
could  adjust  all  the  affairs  of  his  life  in  the 
same  voice  with  which  he  ordered  his  dinner. 
Before,  she  had  always  thought  this  attitude  of 
his  pure  affectation.  Now  she  knew  better, 
knew  it  mirrored  the  man  himself.  He  had 
done  this  thing.  Knowing  her  whereabouts  all 
the  time,  he  had  allotted  her  the  past  year,  as  an 
employer  would  grant  a  holiday  to  an  assistant. 
Now  he  asked  her  to  return  to  the  old  life,  as 
calmly  as  one  returns  in  the  fall  to  the  city  home 
after  an  outing  !  Only  one  man  in  the  world 
could  have  done  that  thing,  and  that  man 
was  before  her — her  husband  by  law — Asa 
Arnold  ! 

The  wonder  of  it  all  crept  into  her  voice. 

"  I  'm  not  coming  back,  can't  you  under 
stand  ?  I  'm  never  coming  back,"  she  repeated. 

The  man  arose  and  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  Don't  say  that,"  he  said  very  quietly.  "  Not 
yet.  I  won't  begin,  now,  after  all  these  years 
to  make  protestations  of  love.  The  thing 
called  Love  we  've  discussed  too  often  already, 

[159] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

and  without  result.  Anyway,  that's  not  the 
point.  We  never  pretended  to  be  lovers,  even 
when  we  were  married.  We  were  simply  use 
ful,  very  useful  to  each  other." 

Camilla  started  to  interrupt  him,  but,  pre 
venting,  he  held  up  his  hand. 

"We  talked  over  a  certain  possibility  —  one 
now  a  reality  —  before  we  were  married."  He 
caught  the  look  upon  her  face.  "  I  don't  say  it 
was  ideal.  It  simply  was"  he  digressed  slowly 
in  answer,  then  hurried  on:  "That  was  only 
five  years  ago,  Eleanor,  and  we  were  far  from 
young."  He  looked  at  her,  searchingly. 
"You've  not  forgotten  the  contract  we  drew 
up,  that  stood  above  the  marriage  obligation, 
above  everything,  supreme  law  for  you  and 
me  ? "  Instinctively  his  hand  went  to  an  inner 
pocket,  where  the  rustle  of  a  paper  answered 
his  touch.  "  Remember;  it 's  not  a  favor  I  ask  of 
you,  but  the  fulfilment  of  your  own  word. 
Think  a  moment  before  you  say  you'll  never 
return." 

Camilla  Maurice  found  an  answer  very 
difficult.  Had  he  been  angry,  or  abusive,  it 
would  have  been  easy;  but  as  it  was — 

[160] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"  You  overlook  the  fact  of  change.  A  lif e- 
time  is  n't  required  for  that." 

"  I  overlook  nothing."  The  man  went  back 
to  his  chair.  "  You  remember,  as  well  as  I,  that 
we  considered  the  problem  of  change  —  and 
laughed  at  it.  I  repeat,  we're  no  longer  in 
swaddling  clothes." 

"Be  that  as  it  may,  I  tell  you  the  whole 
world  looks  different  to  me  now."  The  speaker 
struggled  bravely,  but  the  ghastliness  of  such  a 
discussion  wore  on  her  nerves,  and  her  face 
twitched.  "  No  power  on  earth  could  make  me 
keep  that  contract  since  I  've  changed." 

The  suggestion  of  a  smile  played  about  the 
man's  mouth. 

"  You  Ve  succeeded,  perhaps,  in  finding  that 
for  which  we  searched  so  long  in  vain,  an 
aesthetic,  non-corporeal  love  ? " 

"I  refuse  to  answer  a  question  which  was 
intended  as  an  insult." 

The  words  out  of  her  mouth,  the  woman 
regretted  them. 

"  Though  quick  yourself  to  take  offence,  you 
seem  at  no  great  pains  to  avoid  giving  affront 
to  another."  The  man  voiced  the  reprimand 

[161] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

without  the  twitch  of  an  eyelid,  and  finished 
with  another  question:  "  Have  you  any  reason 
for  doing  as  you've  done,  other  than  the  one 
you  gave  ? " 

"  Reason  !  Reason  ! "  Camilla  Maurice  stared 
again.  "  Is  n't  it  reason  enough  that  I  love  him, 
and  don't  love  you  ?  Isn't  it  sufficient  reason 
to  one  who  has  lived  until  middle  life  in  dark 
ness  that  a  ray  of  light  is  in  sight  ?  Of  all 
people  in  the  world,  you  're  the  one  who  should 
understand  the  reason  best ! " 

"  Would  any  of  those  arguments  be  sufficient 
to  break  another  contract  ?  " 

"  No,  but  one  I  didn't  mention  would.  Even 
when  I  lived  with  you,  I  was  of  no  more  impor 
tance  than  a  half-dozen  other  women." 

"You  didn't  protest  at  time  of  the  agree 
ment.  You  knew  then  my  belief  and,"  Arnold 
paused  meaningly,  "  your  own." 

A  memory  of  the  past  came  to  the  woman; 
the  dark,  lonely  past,  which,  even  yet,  after  so 
many  years,  came  to  her  like  a  nightmare;  the 
time  when  she  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  town, 
without  joy  of  past  or  hope  of  future;  most 

[162] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

lonely  being  on  God's  earth,  a  woman  with  an 
ambition  —  and  without  friends. 

"  I  was  mad  —  I  see  it  now — lonely  mad.  I 
met  you.  Our  work  was  alike,  and  we  were 
very  useful  to  each  other."  One  white  hand 
made  motion  of  repugnance  at  the  thought.  "  I 
was  mad,  I  say." 

"  Is  that  your  excuse  for  ignoring  a  solemn 
obligation  ?  "  Arnold  looked  her  through.  "  Is 
that  your  excuse  for  leaving  me  for  another, 
without  a  word  of  explanation,  or  even  the  con 
ventional  form  of  a  divorce  ? " 

"It  was  just  that  explanation  —  this  —  I 
wished  to  avoid.  It's  hard  for  us  both,  and 
useless." 

"  Useless  ! "  The  man  quickly  picked  up  the 
word.  "  Useless  !  I  don't  like  the  suggestion 
of  that  word.  It  hints  of  death,  and  old  age, 
and  hateful  things.  It  has  no  place  with  the 
living." 

He  drew  a  paper  from  his  pocket,  slowly,  and 
spread  it  on  his  knee. 

"  Pardon  me  for  again  recalling  past  history, 
Eleanor;  but  to  use  a  word  that  is  dead  !  .  .  . 
You  must  have  forgotten — "  The  writing,  a 

[103] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

dainty,  feminine  hand,  was  turned  toward  her, 
tauntingly,  compellingly. 

The  man  waited  for  some  response;  but 
Camilla  Maurice  was  silent.  That  bit  of  paper, 
the  shadow  of  a  seemingly  impossible  past, 
made  her,  for  the  time,  question  her  identity, 
almost  doubt  it. 

Five  years  ago,  almost  to  the  day,  high  up 
in  a  city  building,  in  a  dainty  little  room,  half 
office,  half  atelier,  a  man  and  a  woman  had 
copied  an  agreement,  each  for  the  other,  and 
had  sworn  an  oath  ever  to  remain  true  to  that 
solemn  bond.  .  .  .  She  had  brought  noth 
ing  to  him,  but  herself  ;  not  even  affection.  He, 
on  the  other  hand,  had  saved  her  from  a  life  of 
drudgery  by  elevating  her  to  a  position  where, 
free  of  the  necessity  of  struggling  for  a  bare 
existence,  she  might  hope  to  consummate  the 
fruition  of  at  least  a  part  of  her  dreams.  On 
her  part  .... 

"  Witnesseih:  The  said  Eleanor  Owen  is  at 
liberty  to  follow  her  own  inclinations  as  she  may 
see  fit;  she  is  to  remain  free  of  any  and  all  re 
sponsibilities  and  restrictions  such  as  custom- 

[164] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

arily  attach  to  the  supervision  of  a  household, 
excepting  as  she  may  elect  to  exercise  her  wifely 
prerogatives;  being  absolutely  free  to  pursue 
whatsoever  occupation  or  devices  she  may  de 
sire  or  choose,  the  same  as  if  she  were  yet  a 
spinster.  .  .  . 

" In  Consideration  of  Which:  The  said  Elea 
nor  Owen  agrees  never  so  to  comport  herself 
that  by  word  or  conduct  will  she  bring  ridicule. 
.  .  .  dishonor  upon  the  name.  .  .  . 

Recollection  of  it  all  came  to  her  with  a  rush; 
but  the  words  ran  together  and  swam  in  a  mad 
dening  blur — the  roar  from  the  street  below, 
dull  with  distance;  the  hum  of  the  big  building, 
with  its  faint  concussions  of  closing  doors;  the 
air  from  the  open  window,  not  like  the  sweet 
prairie  air  of  to-day,  but  heavy,  smoky,  typical 
breath  of  the  town,  yet  pregnant  with  the  inde 
scribable  throb  of  spring,  impossible  to  efface 
or  to  disguise !  The  compelling  intimacy  and 
irrevocability  of  that  memory  overwhelmed  her, 
now;  a  dark,  evil  flood  that  blotted  out  the  sun 
shine  of  the  present. 

[165] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

The  paper  rustled,  as  the  man  smoothed  it 
flat  with  his  hand. 

"Shall  I  read?  "he  asked. 

The  woman's  face  stood  clear  —  cruelly  clear 
—  in  the  sunlight;  about  her  mouth  and  eyes 
there  was  an  expression  which,  from  repetition, 
we  have  learned  to  associate  with  the  circle  sur 
rounding  a  new-made  grave:  an  expression 
hopelessly  desperate,  desperately  hopeless. 

Of  a  sudden  her  chin  trembled  and  her  face 
dropped  into  her  hands. 

"  Read,  if  you  wish  " ;  and  the  smooth  brown 
head,  with  its  thread  of  gray,  trembled  uncon 
trollably. 

"  Eleanor  ! "  with  a  sudden  vibration  of  ten 
derness  in  his  voice.  "  Eleanor,"  he  repeated. 

But  the  woman  made  no  response. 

The  man  had  taken  a  step  forward;  now  he 
sat  down  again,  looking  through  the  open  door 
way  at  the  stretch  of  green  prairie,  with  the 
road,  a  narrow  ribbon  of  brown,  dividing  it  fair 
in  the  middle.  In  the  distance  a  farmer's 
wagon  was  rumbling  toward  town,  a  trail  of 
fine  dust,  like  smoke,  suspended  in  the  air 
behind.  It  rattled  past,  and  the  big  collie  on 

[166] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

the  step  woke  to  give  furious  chase  in  its  wake, 
then  returned  slowly,  a  little  conscious  under  the 
stranger's  eye,  to  sleep  as  before.  Asa  Arnold 
sat  through  it  all,  still  as  one  devitalized;  an 
expression  on  his  face  no  man  had  ever  seen 
before ;  one  hopeless,  lonely,  akin  to  that  of  the 
woman. 

"Read,  if  you  wish,"  repeated  Camilla, 
bitterly. 

For  a  long  minute  her  companion  made  no 
motion. 

"  It 's  unnecessary,"  he  intoned  at  last.  "  You 
know  as  well  as  I  that  neither  of  us  will  ever 
forget  one  word  it  contains."  He  hesitated  and 
his  voice  grew  gentle.  "  Eleanor,  you  know  I 
didn't  come  here  to  insult  you,  or  to  hurt  you 
needlessly;  —  but  I'm  human.  You  seem  to 
forget  this.  You  brand  me  less  than  a  man,  and 
then  ask  of  me  the  unselfishness  of  a  God  ! " 

Camilla's  white  face  lifted  from  her  hands. 

"  I  ask  nothing  except  that  you  leave  me 
alone." 

For  the  first  time  the  little  man  showed  his 
teeth. 

"  At  last  you  mention  the  point  I  came  here 

[167] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

to  arrange.  Were  you  alone,  rest  assured  I 
shouldn't  trouble  you." 

"  You  mean— " 

"  I  mean  just  this.  I  would  n't  be  human  if  I 
did  what  you  ask — if  I  condoned  what  you've 
done  and  are  still  doing."  He  was  fairly  started 
now,  and  words  came  crowding  each  other;  re 
proachful,  tempestuous. 

"Didn't  you  ever  stop  to  think  of  the  past 
— think  what  you've  done,  Eleanor?"  He 
paused  without  giving  her  an  opportunity  to 
answer.  "Let  me  tell  you,  then.  You've 
broken  every  manner  of  faith  between  man  and 
woman.  If  you  believe  in  God,  you  've  broken 
faith  with  Him  as  well.  Don't  think  for  a 
moment  I  ever  had  respect  for  marriage  as  a 
divine  institution,  but  I  did  have  respect  for 
you,  and  at  your  wish  we  conformed.  You  're 
my  wife  now,  by  your  own  choosing.  Don't 
interrupt  me,  please.  I  repeat,  God  has  no 
more  to  do  with  ceremonial  marriage  now  than 
he  had  at  the  time  of  the  Old  Testament  and 
polygamy.  It's  a  man-made  bond,  but  an 
obligation  nevertheless,  and  as  such,  at  the 
foundation  of  all  good  faith  between  man  and 

[168] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

woman.  It 's  this  good  faith  you  Ve  broken." 
A  look  of  bitterness  flashed  over  his  face. 

"  Still,  I  could  excuse  this  and  release  you  at 
the  asking,  remaining  your  friend,  your  best 
friend  as  before ;  but  to  be  thrown  aside  without 
even  a  'by  your  leave,'  and  that  for  another 
man  —  "  He  hesitated  and  finished  slowly: 

"You  know  me  well  enough,  Eleanor,  to 
realize  that  I  'm  in  earnest  when  I  say  that  while 
I  live  the  man  has  yet  to  be  born  who  can  take 
something  of  mine  away  from  me." 

Camilla  gestured  passionately. 

"  In  other  words :  while  growling  hard  at  the 
dog  who  approached  your  bone,  you  have  no 
hesitation  in  stealing  from  another  ! "  The  ac 
cumulated  bitterness  of  years  of  repression 
spoke  in  the  taunt. 

Across  the  little  man's  face  there  fell  an  im 
penetrable  mask,  like  the  armor  which  dropped 
about  an  ancient  ship  of  war  before  the  shock 
of  battle. 

"I'm  not  on  trial.  I've  not  changed  my 
name  — "  he  nodded  significantly  toward  the 
view  beyond  the  open  door,  —  "  and  sought  se 
clusion." 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Again  the  bitterness  of  memory  prompted 
Camilla  to  speak  the  harshest  words  of  her  life. 

"  No,  you  hadn't  the  decency.  It  was  more 
pleasure  to  thrust  your  shame  daily  in  my  face." 

Arnold's  color  paled  above  the  dark  beard 
line ;  but  the  woman  took  no  heed. 

"Why  did  you  wait  a  year,"  continued  the 
bitter  voice,  "to  end  in — this?  If  it  must 
have  been  —  why  not  before  ?" 

"  I  repeat,  I  'm  not  on  trial.  If  you  Ve  any 
thing  to  say,  I  '11  listen." 

Something  new  in  the  man's  face  caught  Ca 
milla's  attention,  softened  the  tone  of  her  voice. 

"  I  Ve  only  this  to  say.  You  Ve  asked  for  an 
explanation  and  a  promise ;  but  I  can  give  you 
neither.  If  there  ever  comes  a  time  when  I  feel 
they  're  due  you,  and  I  'm  able  to  comply,  I  '11 
give  them  both  gladly."  The  absent  look  of  the 
past  returned  to  her  eyes.  "  Even  if  I  wished, 
I  couldn't  give  you  an  explanation  now.  I  can't 
make  myself  understand  the  contradiction. 
Somehow,  knowing  you  so  long,  your  beliefs 
crept  insistently  into  my  loneliness.  It  seems 
hideous  now,  but  I  was  honest  then.  I  believed 
them,  too.  I  don't  blame  you;  I  only  pity  you. 
[170] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

You  were  the  embodiment  of  protest  against  the 
established,  of  the  non-responsibility  of  the  indi 
vidual,  of  skepticism  in  everything.  Your  eter 
nal  *  why '  covered  my  horizon.  Every  familiar 
thing  came  to  bear  a  question  I  could  n't  answer. 
My  whole  life  seemed  one  eternal  doubt.  One 
thing  I  'd  never  known,  and  I  questioned  it  most 
of  all ;  the  one  thing  I  know  now  to  be  the  truth, 
—  the  greatest  truth  in  the  world."  For  an  in 
stant  the  present  crowded  the  past  from  Camil 
la's  mind,  but  only  for  an  instant.  "  Whatever  I 
was  at  the  time,  you'd  made  me  —  with  your 
deathless  *  why.'  When  I  signed  the  obligation 
of  that  day,  I  believed  it  was  of  my  own  free 
will;  but  I  know  now  it  was  you  who  wrote  it 
for  both  of  us  —  you,  with  your  perpetual  in 
terrogation.  I  don 't  accuse  you  of  doing  this 
deliberately,  maliciously.  We  were  both  de 
ceived;  but  none  the  less  the  fact  remains."  A 
shadow,  almost  of  horror,  passed  over  her  face. 
"  Time  passed,  and  though  you  didn't  know, 
I  was  in  Hell.  Reason  told  me  I  was  right.  In 
stinct,  something,  called  me  a  drag.  I  tried  to 
compromise,  and  we  were  married.  Then,  for 
[171} 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

the  first  time,  came  realization.  We  were  the 
best  of  friends,  —  but  only  friends." 

"  You  wonder  how  I  knew.  I  did  n't  tell  you 
then.  I  couldn't.  I  could  only  feel,  and  that 
not  clearly.  The  shadow  of  your  'why'  was 
still  dark  upon  me.  What  I  vaguely  felt  then, 
though,  I  know  now ;  as  I  recognize  light  or  cold 
or  pain."  Her  voice  assumed  the  tone  of  one  who 
speaks  of  mysteries;  slow,  vibrant.  "  In  every 
woman's  mind  the  maternal  instinct  should  be 
uppermost;  before  everything,  before  God, — 
unashamed,  inevitable.  It's  unmistakably  the 
distinction  of  a  good  woman  from  a  bad.  The 
choosing  of  the  father  of  her  child  is  a  woman's 
unfailing  test  of  love." 

The  face  of  the  man  before  her  dropped  into 
his  hands,  but  she  did  not  notice. 

"  Gropingly  I  felt  this,  and  the  knowledge 
came  almost  as  an  inspiration.  It  gave  a  clue 
to  —  " 

"Stop!"  The  man's  eyes  blazed,  as  he 
leaped  from  his  chair.  "  Stop  ! " 

He  took  a  step  forward,  his  hand  before  him, 
his  face  twitching  uncontrollably.  The  collie 
[172] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

on  the  step  awoke,  and  seeing  his  mistress 
threatened,  growled  ominously. 

"  Stop,  I  tell  you  ! "  Arnold  choked  for 
words.  This  the  man  of  "  why,"  whom  nothing 
before  could  shake  ! 

Camilla  paled  as  her  companion  arose,  and 
the  dog,  bristling,  came  inside  the  room. 

"  Get  out ! "  blazed  the  man,  with  a  threaten 
ing  step,  and  the  collie  fled. 

The  interruption  loosed  words  which  came 
tumbling  forth  in  a  torrent,  as  Arnold  returned 
to  face  her. 

"  You  think  I  'm  human,  and  yet  tell  me  that 
to  my  face  ? "  His  voice  was  terrible.  "  You 
women  brand  men  cruel !  No  man  on  earth 
would  speak  as  you  have  spoken  to  a  woman 
he  'd  lived  with  for  four  years  ! "  The  sentences 
crowded  over  each  other,  like  water  over  a  fall 
— his  eyes  flashing  like  a  spray. 

"  I  told  you  before,  I  'm  not  on  trial;  that  it 
was  not  my  place  to  defend.  I  don't  do  so  now ; 
but  since  you  Ve  spoken,  I  '11  answer  your  ques 
tion.  You  ask  why  I  didn't  come  a  year  ago, 
hinting  that  I  wanted  to  be  more  cruel.  God  ! 
the  blindness  and  injustice  of  you  women  !  Be- 
[173] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

cause  we  men  don't  show — Bah!  ...  I 
was  paying  my  own  price.  We  were  n't  living 
by  the  marriage  vow;  it  was  but  a  farce.  Our 
own  contract  was  the  vital  thing,  and  it  had  said 
—  But  I  won't  repeat.  God,  it  was  bitter  !  But 
I  thought  you  'd  come  back.  I  loved  you  still." 
He  paused  for  words,  breathing  hard. 

"  You  say,  1 11  never  know  what  love  is. 
Blind  !  I  've  always  loved  you  until  this  mo 
ment,  when  you  killed  my  love.  You  say  I  was 
untrue.  It's  false.  I  swear  it  before  —  you,  as 
you  were  once,  —  when  you  were  my  god.  Had 
you  trusted  me,  as  I  trusted  you,  there  'd  have 
been  no  thought  of  unfaithfulness  in  your 
mind." 

The  woman  sank  back  in  the  chair,  her  face 
covered,  her  whole  body  trembling;  but  Asa 
Arnold  went  on  like  the  storm. 

"  Yes,  I  was  ever  true  to  you.  From  the  first 
moment  we  met,  and  against  my  own  beliefs. 
You  did  n't  see.  You  expected  me  to  protest  it 
daily:  to  repeat  the  tale  as  a  child  repeats  its 
lesson  for  a  comfit.  Blind,  I  say,  blind  !  You  '11 
charge  that  I  never  told  you  that  I  loved  you. 
You  wouldn't  have  believed  me,  even  had  I 
[174] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

done  so.  Besides,  I  didn't  realize  that  you 
doubted,  until  the  time  when  you  were  learn 
ing —  "  he  walked  jerkily  across  the  room  and 
took  up  his  hat,  —  "learning  the  thing  you 
threw  in  my  face."  He  started  to  leave,  but 
stopped  in  the  doorway,  without  looking  back. 
"  You  tell  me  you  've  suffered.  For  the  first 
time  in  my  life  I  say  to  another  human  being: 
I  hope  so."  He  turned,  unsteadily,  down  the 
steps. 

"  Wait,"  pleaded  the  woman.    "  Wait ! " 

The  man  did  not  stop,  or  turn. 

Camilla  Maurice  sank  back  in  the  chair,  weak 
as  one  sick  unto  death,  her  mind  a  throbbing, 
whirling  chaos,  —  as  of  a  patient  under  an 
anaesthetic.  Something  she  knew  she  ought  to 
do,  intended  doing,  and  could  not.  She  groped 
desperately,  but  overwhelming,  insistent,  there 
had  developed  in  her  a  sudden,  preventing  tu 
mult —  in  paradox,  a  confusion  in  rhythm  — 
like  the  beating  of  a  great  hammer  on  an  anvil, 
only  incredibly  more  swift  than  blows  from  hu 
man  hands.  Over  and  over  again  she  repeated 
to  herself  the  one  word:  "wait,"  "wait," 
"  wait,"  but  mechanically  now,  without  thought 
[175] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

as  to  the  reason.  Then,  all  at  once,  soft,  all- 
enfolding,  kindly  Nature  wrapped  her  in 
darkness. 

She  awoke  with  the  big  collie  licking  her 
hand,  and  a  numbness  of  cramped  limbs  that 
was  positive  pain.  A  long-necked  pullet  was 
standing  in  the  doorway,  with  her  mouth  open  ; 
others  stood  wondering,  beyond.  The  sun  had 
moved  until  it  no  longer  shone  in  at  the  tiny 
south  windows,  and  the  shadow  of  the  house  had 
begun  to  lengthen. 

Camilla  stood  up  in  the  doorway;  uncertain, 
dazed.  A  great  lump  was  on  her  forehead, 
which  she  stroked  absently,  without  surprise  at 
its  presence.  She  looked  about  the  yard,  and,  her 
breath  coming  more  quickly,  at  the  prairie.  A 
broad  green  plain,  parted  by  the  road  squarely 
in  the  centre,  smiled  at  her  in  the  sunlight. 
That  was  all.  She  stepped  outside  and  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  hand.  Not  a  wagon  nor  a 
human  being  was  in  sight. 

Again  the  weakness  and  the  blackness  came 
stealing  over  her;  she  sank  down  on  the  door 
step. 

[170] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

**  O  God,  what  have  I  done  1 "  she  wailed. 

The  hens  returned  to  their  search  for  bugs; 
but  the  big  collie  stayed  by  her  side,  whimpering 
and  fondling  her  hand. 


[177] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  V  —  THE  DOMINANCE  OF  THE 
EVOLVED 


HE  keen  joy  of  life  was  warmly  flooding 
A  Ichabod  Maurice  this  spring  day.  Not 
life  for  the  sake  of  an  ambition  or  a  duty,  but 
delight  in  the  mere  animal  pleasure  of  existence. 
He  had  risen  early,  and,  a  neighbor  with  him, 
they  had  driven  forth  :  stars  all  about,  perpen 
dicular,  horizontal,  save  in  the  reddening  east, 
upon  their  long  day's  drive  to  the  sawmill.  The 
two  teams  plodded  along  steadily,  their  footfall 
muffled  in  the  soft  prairie  loam;  the  earth  else 
where  soundless,  with  a  silence  which  even  yet 
was  a  marvel  to  the  city  man. 

The  majesty  of  it  held  him  silent  until  day 
dawned,  and  with  the  coming  of  the  sun  there 
woke  in  unison  the  chorus  of  joyous  animal  life. 
Then  Ichabod,  his  long  legs  dangling  over  the 
dashboard,  lifted  up  a  voice  untrained  as  the 
note  of  a  loon,  and  sang  lustily,  until  his  com- 
[178] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

panion  on  the  wagon  ahead,  —  boy-faced,  man- 
bodied,  —  grinned  perilously. 

The  long-visaged  man  was  near  happiness 
that  morning,  —  unbelievably  near.  By  nature 
unsocial,  by  habit,  city  inbred,  artificially  taci 
turn,  there  came  with  the  primitive  happiness  of 
the  moment  the  concomitant  primitive  desire  for 
companionship.  He  smiled  self -tolerantly 
when,  obeying  an  instinct,  he  wound  the  lines 
around  the  seat,  and  went  ahead  to  the  man, 
who  grinned  companionably  as  he  made  room 
beside  him. 

"  God's  country,  this."  Ichabod's  hand  made 
an  all-including  gesture,  as  he  seated  himself 
comfortably,  his  hat  low  over  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  and  the  grin  was  repeated. 

The  tall  man  reflected.  Sunburned,  roughly 
dressed,  unshaven  as  he,  Maurice,  was,  this  boy- 
man  never  failed  the  word  of  respect.  Ichabod 
examined  him  curiously  out  of  his  shaded  lids. 
Big  brown  hands ;  body  strong  as  a  bull ;  power 
ful  shoulders ;  neck  turned  like  a  model ;  a  soft 
chin  under  a  soft,  light  beard ;  gentl'e  blue  eyes 
—  all  in  all,  a  face  so  open  that  its  very  leg- 
[179] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

ibility  seemed  a  mark.  It  reddened  now,  under 
the  scrutiny. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Ichabod.  "  I  was  thinking 
how  happy  you  are." 

"  Yes,  sir."    And  the  face  reddened  again. 

Ichabod  smiled. 

"  When  is  it  to  be,  Ole?" 

The  big  body  wriggled  in  blissful  embarrass 
ment. 

"  As  soon  as  the  house  is  built," —  confusedly. 
'  You  're  building  very  fast,  eh  ?  " 

The  Swede  grinned  confirmation.  Words 
were  of  value  to  Ole. 

"I  see  the  question  was  superfluous,"  and 
Ichabod  likewise  smiled  in  genial  comradery.  A 
moment  later,  however,  the  smile  vanished. 

"You're  very  content  as  it  is  Ole,"  he 
digressed,  equivocally ;  "  but  —  supposing  — 
Minna  were  already  the  wife  of  a  friend  ? " 

The  Swede  stared  in  breathless  astonishment. 

"  She  is  n't,  though  "  he  gasped  at  length  in 
startled  protest. 

"  But  supposing — " 

"  It  would  be  so.    I  could  n't  help  it." 

[180] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"  You  'd  do  nothing  ? "  rank  anarchy  in  the 
suggestion. 

"  What  would  there  be  to  do  ? " 

Ichabod  temporized. 

"  Supposing  again,  she  loved  you,  and  did  n't 
love  her  husband  ? "  Ole  scratched  his  head,  see 
ing  very  devious  passages  beyond.  "  That 
would  be  different,"  and  he  crossed  his  legs. 

Ichabod  smiled.  The  world  over,  human  na 
ture  is  fashioned  from  one  mould. 

"  Supposing,  once  more,  it 's  a  year  from  now, 
—  five  years  from  now.  You've  married 
Minna,  but  you  're  not  happy.  She 's  grown  to 
hate  you, — to  love  another  man  ? " 

Ole's  faith  was  beautiful. 

"  It 's  not  to  be  thought  of.    It 's  impossible  ! " 

"  But  supposing,"  urged  Ichabod. 

The  boy-man  was  silent  for  a  very  long  min 
ute;  then  his  face  darkened,  and  the  soft  jaw 
grew  hard. 

"  I  don't  know — "  he  said  slowly,  —  "  I  don't 
know,  but  I  think  I  kill  that  man." 

Ichabod  did  not  smile  this  time. 

"We're  all  much  alike,  Ole.  I  think  you 
would." 

[181] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

They  drove  on;  far  past  the  town,  now;  the 
sun  high  in  the  sky;  dew  sparkling  like  prisms 
innumerable;  the  prairie  colorings  soft  as  a 
rug — its  varied  greens  of  groundwork  blend 
ing  with  the  narrow  line  of  fresh  breaking  roll 
ing  at  their  feet. 

"  You  were  born  in  this  country  ? "  asked 
Ichabod  suddenly. 

"In  Iowa.  It's  much  like  this  —  only 
rougher." 

"  You  '11  live  here,  always  ? " 

The  Swede  shook  his  head  and  the  boy's 
face  grew  older. 

"No;  some  day,  we're  going  to  the  city  — 
Minna  and  I.  We  've  planned." 

Ichabod  was  thoughtful  a  minute. 

"  I  'm  a  friend  of  yours,  Ole." 

"  A  very  good  friend,"  repeated  the  mystified 
Swede. 

"  Then,  listen,  and  don't  forget."  The  voice 
was  vibrant,  low,  but  the  boy  heard  it  clearly 
above  the  noise  of  the  wagon.  "  Don't  do  it, 
Ole;  in  God's  name,  don't  do  it!  Stay  here, 
you  '11  be  happy."  He  looked  the  open-mouthed 
listener  deep  in  the  eyes.  "  If  you  ever  say  a 

[182] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

prayer,  let  it  be  the  old  one,  even  though  it  be  an 
insult  to  a  just  God :  —  *  Lead  us  not  into  temp 
tation/  Avoid,  as  you  would  avoid  death,  the 
love  of  money,  the  fever  of  unrest,  the  desire  to 
become  greater  than  your  fellows,  the  thirst  to 
know  and  to  taste  all  things,  which  is  the  spirit 
of  the  city.  Live  close  to  Nature,  where  all  is 
equal  and  all  is  good;  where  sleep  comes  in  the 
time  of  sleep,  and  work  when  it  is  day.  Do  that 
labor  which  comes  to  you  at  the  moment,  leaving 
to-morrow  to  Nature."  He  crossed  his  long  legs, 
and  pressed  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes.  "  Ac 
cept  life  as  Nature  gives  it,  day  by  day.  Don't 
question,  and  you  '11  find  it  good."  He  repeated 
himself  slowly.  "That's  the  secret.  Don't 
doubt,  or  question  anything." 

In  the  Swede's  throat  there  was  a  rattling, 
which  presaged  speech,  but  it  died  away. 

"  Do  you  love  children,  Ole  ? "  asked  Ichabod, 
suddenly. 

The  boy  face  flushed.    Ole  was  very  young. 

"I— "he  lagged. 

"  Of  course  you  do.  Every  living  human  be 
ing  does.  It 's  the  one  good  instinct,  which  even 
the  lust  of  gain  does  n't  down.  It 's  the  tie  that 
[183] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

binds, — the  badge  of  brotherhood  which  makes 
the  world  one."  He  gently  laid  his  hand  on  the 
broad  shoulder  beside  him. 

"  Don't  be  ashamed  to  say  you  love  children, 
boy,  though  the  rest  of  the  world  laugh,  —  for 
they  're  laughing  at  a  lie.  They  '11  tell  you  the 
parental  instinct  is  dying  out  with  the  advance 
of  civilization;  that  the  time  will  come  when 
man  will  educate  himself  to  his  own  extinction. 
It's  false,  I  tell  you,  absolutely  false."  Ich- 
abod  had  forgotten  himself,  and  he  rushed  on, 
far  above  the  head  of  the  gaping  Swede. 

"  There 's  one  instinct  in  the  world,  the  in 
stinct  of  parenthood,  which  advances  eternal, 
stronger,  infinitely,  as  man's  mind  grows 
stronger.  So  unvarying  the  rule  that  it 's  almost 
an  index  of  civilization  itself,  advancing  from 
a  crude  instinct  of  the  body-base  and  animal  — 
until  it  reaches  the  realm  of  the  mind :  the  high 
est,  the  holiest  of  man's  desires :  yet  stronger  im 
measurably,  as  with  the  educated,  things  of  the 
mind  are  stronger  than  things  of  the  body. 
Those  who  deny  this  are  fools,  or  imposters, —  I 
know  not  which.  To  do  so  is  to  strike  at  the 
very  foundation  of  human  nature, — but  im- 

[184] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

potently, —  for  in  fundamentals,  human  nature 
is  good."  Unconsciously,  a  smile  flashed  over 
the  long  face. 

"  Talk  about  depopulating  the  earth  !  All 
the  wars  of  primitive  man  were  inadequate.  The 
vices  of  civilization  have  likewise  failed.  Even 
man's  mightiest  weapon,  legislation,  couldn't 
stay  the  tide  for  a  moment,  if  it  would.  While 
man  is  man,  and  woman  is  woman,  that  long, 
above  government,  religion,  —  life  and  death 
itself,  —  will  reign  supreme  the  eternal  instinct 
of  parenthood." 

Ichabod  caught  himself  in  his  own  period  and 
stopped,  a  little  ashamed  of  his  earnestness.  He 
sat  up  in  the  seat  preparatory  to  returning  to 
his  own  wagon,  then  dropped  his  hand  once 
more  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"  I  'm  old  enough  to  be  your  father,  boy,  and 
have  done,  in  all  things,  the  reverse  of  what  I 
advised  you.  Therefore,  I  know  I  was  wrong. 
We  may  sneer  and  speak  of  poetry  when  the 
words  proceed  from  another,  my  boy;  but,  as 
inevitable  as  death,  there  comes  to  every  man 
the  knowledge  that  he  stands  accursed  of  Na- 

[185] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

ture,  who  hasn't  heard  the  voice  of  his  own 
child  call'  father!"' 

He  clambered  down,  leaving  the  speechless 
Ole  sprawling  on  the  wagon-seat.  Back  in  his 
own  wagon,  he  smiled  broadly  to  himself. 

"  Strange,  how  easily  the  apple  falls  when 
it's  ripe,"  he  soliloquized. 

They  drove  on  clear  to  the  mill  without  an 
other  word ;  without  even  a  grin  from  the  broad- 
faced  Ole,  who  sat  in  ponderous  thought  in  the 
wagon  ahead.  To  a  nature  such  as  his  the  in- 
f requency  of  a  new  idea  gives  it  the  force  of  a 
cataclysm  ;  during  its  presence,  obliterating 
everything  else. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  they  reached  the 
narrow  fringe  of  trees  and  underbrush  —  decid 
uous  and  wind-tortured  all  —  which  bordered 
the  big,  muddy,  low-lying  Missouri;  and  soon 
they  could  hear  the  throb  of  the  engine  at  the 
mill,  and  the  swish  of  the  saw  through  the  green 
lumber  ;  a  sound  that  heard  near  by,  inevitably 
carries  the  suggestion  of  scalpel  and  living 
flesh.  Nothing  but  green  timber  was  sawed 
thereabout  in  those  days.  The  country  was  set- 

[186] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

tling  rapidly,  lumber  was  imperative,  and  avail 
able  timber  very,  very  limited. 

Returning,  the  heavy  loads  grumbled  slowly 
along,  so  slowly  that  it  was  nearly  evening,  and 
their  shadows  preceded  them  by  rods  when  they 
reached  the  little  prairie  town.  They  stopped 
to  water  their  teams;  and  Ole,  true  to  the  in 
stincts  of  his  plebeian  ancestry,  went  in  search 
of  a  glass  of  beer.  He  returned,  quickly,  his 
face  very  red. 

"A  fellow  in  there  is  talking  about  —  about 
Mrs.  Maurice,"  he  blurted. 

" In  the  saloon,  Ole?" 

The  Swede  repeated  the  story,  watching  the 
tall  man  from  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

A  man,  very  drunk,  was  standing  by  the  bar, 
and  telling  how,  in  coming  to  town,  he  had  seen 
a  buggy  drive  away  from  the  Maurice  home 
very  fast.  He  had  thought  it  was  the  doctor's 
buggy  and  had  stopped  in  to  see  if  any  one  was 
sick. 

The  fellow  had  grinned  here  and  drank  some 
more,   before   finishing   the    story;    the   sur 
rounding  audience  winking  at  each  other  mean 
while,  and  drinking  in  company. 
[187] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  how  Camilla  Mau 
rice  had  sat  just  inside  the  doorway,  her  face  in 
her  hands,  sobbing, —  so  hard  she  had  n't  noticed 
him ;  and  —  and  —  it  was  n't  the  doctor  who  had 
been  there  at  all ! 

Ichabod  had  been  holding  a  pail  of  water  so 
that  a  horse  might  drink.  At  the  end  he  mo 
tioned  Ole  very  quietly,  to  take  his  place. 

"Finish  watering  them,  and  —  wait  for  me, 
please." 

It  was  far  from  what  the  Swede  had  ex 
pected  ;  but  he  accepted  the  task,  obediently. 

The  only  saloon  of  the  town  stood  almost  ex 
actly  opposite  Hans  Becher's  place,  flush  with 
the  street.  A  long,  low  building,  communicat 
ing  with  the  outer  world  by  one  door — sans 
glass  —  its  single  window  in  front  and  at  the 
rear  lit  it  but  imperfectly  at  midday,  and  now  at 
early  evening  made  faces  almost  indistinguish 
able,  and  cast  kindly  shadow  over  the  fly  specks 
and  smoke  stains  of  a  low  roof.  A  narrow  pine 
bar,  redolent  of  tribute  absorbed  from  innumer 
able  passing  "schooners,"  stretched  the  entire 
length  of  the  room  at  one  side ;  and  back  of  it, 
in  shirt  sleeves  and  stained  apron,  presided  the 

[188] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

typical  bar-keeper  of  the  frontier.  All  this  Ich- 
abod  saw  as  he  stepped  inside ;  then,  himself  in 
shadow,  he  studied  the  group  before  him. 

Railroad  and  cattle  men,  mostly,  made  up 
the  gathering,  with  a  scant  sprinkling  of  farm 
ers  and  others  unclassified.  A  big,  ill-dressed 
fellow  was  repeating  the  tale  of  scandal  for  the 
benefit  of  a  newcomer;  the  narrative  moving 
jerkily  over  hiccoughs,  like  hurdles. 

"  —  I  drew  up  to  th'  house  quick,  an'  went 
up  th'  path  quiet  like," — he  tapped  thunder 
ously  on  the  bar  with  a  heavy  glass  for  silence  — 
"quiet  —  sh-h  —  like;  an'  when  I  come  t'  th' 
door,  ther'  'twas  open,  an' — as  I  hope  —  hope 
t'  die,  .  .  .  drink  on  me,  b'ys,  allery' — 
set  'm  up,  Barney  ol'  b'y,  m'  treat,  .  .  . 
hope  t'  die,  ther'  she  sat,  like  this — "  He 
looked  around  mistily  for  a  chair,  but  none  was 
convenient,  and  he  slid  flat  to  the  floor  in  their 
midst,  his  face  in  his  hands,  blubbering  dismally 
in  imitation.  .  .  .  "Sat  (hie)  like  this; 
rockin'  an'  moanin'  n'  callin'  his  name :  Asa  — 
Asa  —  Asa — (hie)  Arnold  —  'shure's  I 'm  a 
sinner  she — " 

He  did  not  finish.    Very  suddenly  the  sur- 

[189] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

rounding  group  had  scattered,  and  he  peered  up 
through  maudlin  tears  to  learn  the  cause.  One 
man  alone  stood  above  him.  The  room  had 
grown  still  as  a  church. 

The  drunken  one  blinked  his  watery  eyes  and 
showed  his  yellow  teeth  in  a  convivial  grin. 

"  G'devnin',  pard.  .  .  .  Serve  th'—th' 
gem'n,  Barney;  m'  treat."  Again  the  teeth  ob 
truded.  "Wasjes'  —  " 

"  Get  up  ! " 

He  of  the  story  winked  harder  than  before. 

"  Bless  m'  —  "  He  paused  for  an  expletive, 
hiccoughed,  and  forgetting  what  had  caused  the 
halt,  stumbled  on:  —  "Didn'  rec'gniz'  y'  b'- 
fore.  Shake,  oF  boy.  S  —  sh-sorry  for  y'." 
Tears  rose  copiously.  "Tough  —  when  feller's 
wife—" 

Interrupting  suddenly  a  muffled  sound  like 
the  distant  exhaust  of  a  big  engine  —  the  meet 
ing  of  a  heavy  boot  with  an  obstacle  on  the 
floor.  "Get  up!" 

A  very  mountain  of  human  brawn  resolved 
itself  upward ;  a  hand  on  its  hips ;  a  curse  on  its 
lips. 

"You  damned  lantern-faced  — "     No  hic- 

[190] 


You'll  apologize." 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

cough  now,  but  a  pause  from  pure  physical  im 
potence,  pending  a  doubtful  struggle  against  a 
half-dozen  men. 

"Order,  gentlemen!"  demanded  the  bar 
keeper,  adding  emphasis  by  hammering  a  heavy 
bottle  on  the  bar. 

"  Let  him  go,"  commanded  Ichabod  very 
quietly;  but  they  all  heard  through  the  con 
fusion.  "  Let  him  go." 

The  country  was  by  no  means  the  wild  West 
of  the  story-papers,  but  it  was  primitive,  and  no 
man  thought,  then,  of  preventing  the  obviously 
inevitable. 

Ichabod  held  up  his  hand,  suggestively,  im 
peratively,  and  the  crowd  fell  back,  silent, — 
leaving  him  facing  the  big  man. 

'  You  '11  apologize  ! "  The  thin  jaw  showed 
clear,  through  the  shade  of  brown  stubble  on 
Ichabod's  face. 

For  answer,  the  big  man  leaning  on  the  bar 
exhibited  his  discolored  teeth  and  breathed 
hard. 

"  How  shall  it  be  ? "  asked  Ichabod. 

A  grimy  hand  twitched  toward  a  grimier  hip. 

"  You  Ve  seen  the  likes  of  this  —  " 

[191] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Ichabod  turned  toward  the  spectators. 

"Will  any  man  lend  ma — " 

"Here—" 

"Here—" 

"  And  give  us  a  little  light." 

"  Outside,"  suggested  the  saloon-keeper. 

"We're  not  advertising  patent  medicine," 
blazed  Ichabod,  and  the  lamps  were  lit  imme 
diately. 

Once  more  the  long-visaged  man  appealed  to 
the  group  lined  up  now  against  the  bar. 

"Gentlemen  —  I  never  carried  a  revolver  a 
half -hour  in  my  life.  Is  it  any  more  than  fair 
that  I  name  the  details  ?  " 

"  Name  'm  and  be  quick,"  acquiesced  his  big 
opponent  before  the  others  could  speak. 

"  Thanks,  Mr.  Duggin,"  with  equal  swift 
ness.  "  These,  then,  are  the  conditions."  For 
three  seconds,  that  seemed  a  minute,  Ichabod 
looked  steadily  between  his  adversary's  bushy 
eyebrows.  "  The  conditions,"  he  repeated,  "  are, 
that  starting  from  opposite  ends  of  the  room, 
we  don't  fire  until  our  toes  touch  in  the  middle 
line." 

[192] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"  Good  ! "  commended  a  voice ;  but  it  was  not 
big  Duggin  who  spoke. 

"  1 11  see  that  it 's  done,  too," —  added  a  listen 
ing  cattleman,  grasping  Ichabod  by  the  hand. 

"And  I." 

The  building  had  been  designed  as  a  bowling- 
alley  and  was  built  the  entire  length  of  the  lot. 
With  an  alacrity  born  of  experience,  the  long 
space  opposite  the  bar  was  cleared,  and  the  bel 
ligerents  stationed  one  at  either  end,  their  faces 
toward  the  wall.  Midway  between  them  a 
heavy  line  had  been  drawn  with  chalk,  and  be 
side  it  stood  a  half-dozen  grim  men,  their  hands 
resting  suggestively  on  their  hips.  The  room 
was  again  very  quiet,  and  from  out-of-doors 
penetrated  the  shrill  sound  of  a  schoolboy 
whistling  "  Annie  Laurie  "  with  original  varia 
tions.  So  exotic  seemed  the  entire  scene  in  its 
prairie  setting,  that  it  might  have  been  trans 
ferred  bodily  from  the  stage  of  a  distant  theatre 
and  set  down  here, — by  mistake. 

"  Now,"  directed  a  voice.  "  You  understand, 
men.  You're  to  face  and  walk  to  the  line. 
When  your  feet  touch  —  fire;  and,"  warn- 

[193] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

ingly  —  "remember,  not  before.  Ready,  gen 
tlemen.  Turn." 

Ichabod  faced  about,  the  cocked  revolver  in 
his  hand,  the  name  Asa  Arnold  singing  in  his 
ears.  A  terrible  cold-white  anger  was  in  his 
heart  against  the  man  opposite,  who  had  pub 
licly  caused  the  resurrection  of  this  hated, 
buried  thing.  For  a  moment  it  blotted  out  all 
other  sensations;  then,  rushing,  crowding  came 
other  thoughts, — vision  from  boyhood  down. 
In  the  space  of  seconds,  faded  scenes  of  the 
dead  past  took  on  sudden  color  and  as  suddenly 
vanished.  Faces,  he  had  forgotten  for  years, 
flashed  instantaneously  into  view.  Voices  long 
hushed  in  oblivion,  re-embodied,  spoke  in  ac 
cents  as  familiar  as  his  own.  Inwardly  he  was 
seething  with  the  myriad  shifting  pictures  of  a 
drowning  man.  Outwardly  he  walked  those 
half -score  steps  to  the  line,  unflinchingly;  came 
to  certain  death,  —  and  waited:  personification 
of  all  that  is  cool  and  deliberate  —  of  the  sud 
den  abundant  nerve  in  emergencies  which 
comes  only  to  the  highly  evolved. 

Duggin,  the  big  man,  turned  likewise  at  the 
word  and  came  part  way  swiftly;  then  stopped, 

1194] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

his  face  very  pale.  Another  step  he  took,  with 
another  pause,  and  with  great  drops  of  perspira 
tion  gathering  on  his  face,  and  on  the  backs  of 
his  hands.  Yet  another  start,  and  he  came  very 
near;  so  near  that  he  gazed  into  the  blue  of 
Ichabod's  eyes.  They  seemed  to  him  now  devil's 
eyes,  and  he  halted,  looking  at  them,  fingering 
the  weapon  in  his  hand,  his  courage  oozing  at 
every  pore. 

Out  of  those  eyes  and  that  long,  thin  face 
stared  death;  not  hot,  sudden  death,  but  nihility, 
cool,  deliberate,  that  waited  for  one  !  The  big 
beads  on  his  forehead  gathered  in  drops  and  ran 
down  his  cheeks.  He  tried  to  move  on,  but  his 
legs  only  trembled  beneath  him.  The  hopeless, 
unreasoning  terror  of  the  frightened  animal,  the 
raw  recruit,  the  superstitious  negro,  was  upon 
him.  The  last  fragment  of  self-respect,  of 
bravado  even,  was  in  tatters.  No  object  on 
earth,  no  fear  of  hereafter,  could  have  made 
him  face  death  in  that  way,  with  those  eyes 
looking  into  his. 

The  weapon  shook  from  Duggin's  hand  to 
the  floor, — with  a  sound  like  the  first  clatter  of 
gravel  on  a  coffin  lid ;  and  in  abasement  absolute 

[195] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

he  dropped  his  head;  his  hands  nerveless,  his 
jaw  trembling. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  —  and  your  wife's,"  he 
faltered. 

"  It  was  all  a  lie  ?  You  were  drunk  ? "  Icha- 
bod  crossed  the  line,  standing  over  him. 

A  rustle  and  a  great  snort  of  contempt  went 
around  the  room;  but  Duggin  still  felt  those 
terrible  eyes  upon  him. 

"  I  was  very  drunk.    It  was  all  a  lie." 

Without  another  word  Ichabod  turned  away, 
and  almost  immediately  the  other  men  followed, 
the  door  closing  behind  them.  Only  the  bar 
keeper  stood  impassive,  watching. 

That  instant  the  red  heat  of  the  liquor  re 
turned  to  the  big  man's  brain  and  he  picked  up 
the  revolver.  Muttering,  he  staggered  over 
to  the  bar. 

"D — n  him  —  the  hide-faced  —  "  he  cursed. 
"  Gimme  a  drink,  Barney.  Whiskey,  straight." 

"Not  a  drop." 

"What?" 

"  Never  another  drop  in  my  place  so  long  as 
I  live." 

"  Barney,  damn  you  ! " 

[196] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"Get  out!    You  coward!" 
"  But,  Barney— " 
"  Not  another  word.    Go." 
Again  Duggin  was  sober  as  he  stumbled  out 
into  the  evening. 

Ichabod  moved  slowly  up  the  street,  months 
aged  in  those  last  few  minutes.  Reaction  was 
inevitable,  and  with  it  the  future  instead  of  the 
present,  stared  him  in  the  face.  He  had 
crowded  the  lie  down  the  man's  throat,  but 
well  he  knew  it  had  been  useless.  The  story 
was  true,  and  it  would  spread;  no  power  of 
his  could  prevent.  He  could  not  deceive  him 
self,  even.  That  name  !  Again  the  white  anger 
born  of  memory,  flooded  him.  Curses  on  the 
name  and  on  the  man  who  had  spoken  it !  Why 
must  the  fellow  have  turned  coward  at  the  last 
moment  ?  Had  they  but  touched  feet  over  the 
line  — 

Suddenly  Ichabod  stopped,  his  hands  pressed 
to  his  head.  Camilla,  home  —  alone  !  And  he 
had  forgotten  !  He  hurried  back  to  the  waiting 
Swede,  an  anathema  that  was  not  directed  at 
another,  hot  on  his  lips. 

[197] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  All  ready,  Ole,"  he  announced,  clambering 
to  the  seat. 

The  boy  handed  up  the  lines  lingeringly. 

"Here,  sir."  Then  uncontrollable,  long- 
repressed  curiosity  broke  the  bounds  of  defer 
ence.  "  You — heard  him,  sir  ? " 

"Yes." 

Ole  edged  toward  his  own  wagon. 

"It  was  n't  so?" 

"Duggin  swore  it  was  a  lie."  . 

"He  —  " 

"  He  swore  it  was  false,  I  say." 

They  drove  out  into  the  prairie  and  the  night; 
the  stars  looking  down,  smiling,  as  in  the  morn 
ing  which  was  so  long  ago,  the  man  had  smiled, 
—  looking  upward. 

"  Tiny,  tiny  mortal,"  they  twinkled,  each  to 
the  other.  "So  small  and  hot,  and  rebellious. 
Tiny,  tiny,  mortal ! " 

But  the  man  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
shutting  them  out. 


[198] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 


CHAPTER  VI  —  BY  A  CANDLE'S  FLAME 

ASA  ARNOLD  sat  in  the  small  upstairs 
room  at  the  hotel  of  Hans  Becher.  It 
was  the  same  room  that  Ichabod  and  Camilla 
had  occupied  when  they  first  arrived;  but  he 
did  not  know  that.  Even  had  he  known,  how 
ever,  it  would  have  made  slight  difference; 
nothing  could  have  kept  them  more  constantly 
in  his  mind  than  they  were  at  this  time.  He 
had  not  slept  any  the  night  before ;  a  fact  which 
would  have  spoken  loudly  to  one  who  knew  him 
well;  and  this  morning  he  was  very  tired.  He 
lounged  low  in  the  oak  chair,  his  feet  on  the 
bed,  the  usual  big  cigar  in  his  mouth. 

This  morning,  the  perspective  of  the  little 
man  was  anything  but  normal.  Worse  than 
that,  he  could  not  reduce  it  to  the  normal,  try 
as  he  might. 

His  meeting  with  Camilla  yesterday  had 
produced  a  deep  and  abiding  shock;  for  either 
of  them  to  have  been  so  moved  signified  the 

[199] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

stirring  of  dangerous  forces.  They  —  and 
especially  himself  —  who  had  always  accepted 
life,  even  crises,  so  calmly ;  who  had  heretofore 
laughed  at  all  display  of  emotion  —  for  them 
to  have  acted  as  they  had,  for  them  to  have 
spoken  to  each  other  the  things  they  had  spoken, 
the  things  they  could  not  forget,  that  he  never 
could  forgive  —  it  was  unbelievable  !  It  upset 
all  the  established  order  of  things  ! 

His  anger  of  yesterday  against  Camilla  had 
died  out.  She  was  not  to  blame;  she  was  a 
woman,  and  women  were  all  alike.  He  had 
thought  differently  before;  that  she  was  an 
exception;  but  now  he  knew  better.  One  and 
all  they  were  mere  puppets  of  emotion,  and 
fickle. 

In  a  measure,  though,  as  he  had  excused 
Camilla  he  had  incriminated  Ichabod.  Ichabod 
was  the  guilty  one,  and  a  man.  Ichabod  had 
filched  from  him  his  possession  of  most  value; 
and  without  even  the  form  of  a  by-your-leave. 
The  incident  of  last  evening  at  the  saloon  (for 
he  had  heard  of  it  in  the  hour,  as  had  every  one 
in  the  little  town)  had  but  served  to  make  more 
implacable  his  resentment.  By  the  satire  of 

[200] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

circumstances  it  had  come  about  that  he  again, 
Asa  Arnold,  had  been  the  cause  of  another's 
defending  the  honor  of  his  own  wife,  —  for  she 
was  his  wife  as  yet,  —  and  that  other,  the  de 
fender,  was  Ichabod  Maurice  ! 

The  little  man's  face  did  not  change  at  the 
thought.  He  only  smoked  harder,  until  the 
room  was  blue;  but  though  he  did  not  put 
the  feeling  in  words  even  to  himself,  he  knew  in 
the  depths  of  his  own  mind  that  the  price  of 
that  last  day  was  death.  Whether  it  was  his 
own  death,  or  the  death  of  Ichabod,  he  did  not 
know;  he  did  not  care;  but  that  one  of  them 
must  die  was  inevitable.  Horrible  as  was  the 
thought,  it  had  no  terror  for  him,  now.  He 
wondered  that  it  did  not  have ;  but,  on  the  con 
trary,  it  seemed  to  him  very  ordinary,  even 
logical  —  as  one  orders  a  dinner  when  he  is 
hungry. 

He  lit  another  cigar,  calmly.  It  was  this  very 
imperturbability  of  the  little  man  which  made 
him  terrible.  Like  a  great  movement  of 
Nature,  it  was  awful  from  its  very  resistless- 
ness  ;  its  imperviability  to  appeal.  Steadily,  as 
he  had  lit  the  cigar,  he  smoked  until  the  air 

[201] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

became  bluer  than  before.  In  a  ghastly  way, 
he  was  trying  to  decide  whose  death  it  should 
be,  —  as  one  decides  a  winter's  flitting,  whether 
to  Florida  or  California ;  only  now  the  question 
was:  should  it  be  suicide,  or,  —  as  in  the  saloon 
yesterday,  —  leave  the  decision  to  Chance  ?  For 
the  time  the  personal  equation  was  eliminated ; 
the  man  weighed  the  evidence  as  impartially  as 
though  he  were  deciding  the  fate  of  another. 

He  sat  long  and  very  still;  until  even  in  the 
daylight  the  red  cigar-end  grew  redder  in  the 
haze.  Without  being  conscious  of  the  fact,  he 
was  probably  doing  the  most  unselfish  thinking 
of  his  life.  What  the  result  of  that  thought 
would  have  been  no  man  will  ever  know,  for  of 
a  sudden,  interrupting,  Hans  Becher's  round 
face  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Ichabod  Maurice  to  see  you,"  coughed  the 
German,  obscured  in  the  cloud  of  smoke  which 
passed  out  like  steam  through  the  opening. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Asa  Arnold's  face 
grew  impassive ;  it  was  that  already.  Certain  it 
was,  though,  that  behind  the  mask  there  oc 
curred,  at  that  moment,  a  revolution.  Born  of 
it,  the  old  mocking  smile  sprang  to  his  lips. 

[202] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"The  devil  fights  for  his  own,"  he  solilo 
quized.  "  I  really  believe  I,"  —  again  the  smile, 
—  "I  was  about  to  make  a  sacrifice." 

"Sir?" 

"Thank  you,  Hans." 

The  German's  jaw  dropped  in  inexpressible 
surprise. 

"Sir?  "he  repeated. 

"  You  made  a  decision  for  me,  then.  Thank 
you." 

"  I  do  not  you  understand." 

"  Tell  Mr.  Maurice  I  shall  be  pleased  to  see 
him." 

The  round  face  disappeared  from  the  door. 

"Donnerwetter!"  commented  the  little  land 
lord  in  the  safe  seclusion  of  the  stairway.  Later, 
in  relating  the  incident  to  Minna,  he  tapped  his 
forehead,  suggestively. 

Ichabod  climbed  the  stair  alone.  "  To  your 
old  room,"  Hans  had  said;  and  Ichabod  knew 
the  place  well.  He  knocked  on  the  panel,  a  voice 
answered:  "Come,"  and  he  opened  the  door. 
Arnold  had  thrown  away  his  cigar  and  opened 
the  window.  The  room  was  clearing  rapidly. 

Ichabod  stepped  inside  and  closed  the  door 

[203] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

carefully  behind  him.  A  few  seconds  he  stood 
holding  it,  then  swung  it  open  quickly  and 
glanced  down  the  hallway.  Answering,  there 
was  a  sudden,  scuttling  sound,  not  unlike  the 
escape  of  frightened  rats,  as  Hans  Becher  pre 
cipitately  disappeared.  The  tall  man  came 
back  and  for  the  second  time  slowly  closed  the 
door. 

Asa  Arnold  had  neither  moved  nor  spoken 
since  that  first  word,  —  "come";  and  the  self- 
invited  visitor  read  the  inaction  correctly.  No 
man,  with  the  knowledge  Ichabod  possessed, 
could  have  misunderstood  the  challenge  in  that 
impassive  face.  No  man,  a  year  ago,  would  have 
accepted  that  challenge  more  quickly.  Now  — 
But  God  only  knew  whether  or  no  he  would 
forget,  —  now. 

For  a  minute,  which  to  an  onlooker  would 
have  seemed  interminable,  the  two  men  faced 
each  other.  Up  from  the  street  came  the  ring 
of  a  heavy  hammer  on  a  sweet-voiced  anvil,  as 
Jim  Donovan,  the  blacksmith,  sharpened  anew 
the  breaking  ploughs  which  were  battling  the 
prairie  sod  for  bread.  In  the  street  below,  a 
group  of  farmers  were  swapping  yarns,  an 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

occasional  chorus  of  guffaws  interrupting  to 
punctuate  the  narrative.  The  combatants 
heard  it  all,  as  one  hears  the  drone  of  the  cicada 
on  a  sleepy  summer  day  ;  at  the  moment,  as  a 
mere  colorless  background  which  later,  Time, 
the  greater  adjuster,  utilizes  to  harmonize  the 
whole  memory. 

Ichabod  had  been  standing ;  now  he  sat  down 
upon  the  bed,  his  long  legs  stretched  out  before 
him. 

"  It  would  be  useless  for  us  to  temporize,"  he 
initiated.  "  I  Ve  intruded  my  presence  in  order 
to  ask  you  a  question."  The  long  fingers  locked 
slowly  over  his  knees.  "What  is  your  object 
here?" 

The  innate  spirit  of  mockery  sprang  to  the 
little  man's  face. 

"You're  mistaken,"  he  smiled;  "so  far  mis 
taken,  that  instead  of  your  visit  being  an  intru 
sion,  I  expected  you  "  —  an  amending  memory 
came  to  him  —  "  although  I  wasn't  looking  for 
you  quite  so  soon,  perhaps."  He  paused  for  an 
instant,  and  the  smile  left  his  lips. 

"  As  to  the  statement  of  object.  I  think  "  — 
slowly  —  "a  disinterested  observer  would  have 

[205] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

put  the  question  you  ask  into  my  mouth."  He 
stared  his  tall  visitor  up  and  down  critically, 
menacingly.  Of  a  sudden,  irresistibly,  a  very 
convulsion  shot  over  his  face.  "  God,  man, 
you  're  brazen  ! "  he  commented  cumulatively. 

Ichabod  had  gambled  with  this  man  in  the 
past,  and  had  seen  him  lose  half  he  possessed 
without  the  twitch  of  an  eyelid.  A  force  which 
now  could  cause  that  sudden  change  of  expres 
sion — no  man  on  earth  knew,  better  than 
Ichabod,  its  intensity.  Perhaps  a  shade  of  the 
same  feeling  crept  into  his  own  answering  voice. 

"We'll  quarrel  later,  if  you  wish,"  — 
swiftly.  "Neither  of  us  can  afford  to  do 
so  now.  I  ask  you  again,  what  are  your  in 
tentions  ? " 

"  And  I  repeat,  the  question  is  by  right  mine. 
It 's  not  I  who  Ve  changed  my  name  and  —  and 
in  other  things  emulated  the  hero  of  the  yellow 
back." 

Ichabod's  face  turned  a  shade  paler,  though 
his  answer  was  calm. 

"  We  Ve  known  each  other  too  well  for  either 
to  attempt  explanation  or  condemnation.  You 
wish  me  to  testify  first."  The  long  fingers  un- 

[206] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

clasped  from  over  his  knee.  "  You  know  the 
story  of  the  past  year:  it's  the  key  to  the 
future." 

A  smile,  sardonic,  distinctive,  lifted  the  tips 
of  Arnold's  big  moustaches. 

"  Your  faith  in  your  protecting  gods  is  cer 
tainly  beautiful." 

Ichabod  nursed  a  callous  spot  on  one  palm. 

"I  understand,"  —  very  slowly.  "At  least, 
you'll  answer  my  question  now,  perhaps,"  he 
suggested. 

"With  pleasure.  You  intimate  the  future 
will  be  but  a  repetition  of  the  past.  It  '11  be  my 
endeavor  to  give  that  statement  the  lie." 

"  You  insist  on  quarrelling  ? " 

"  I  insist  on  but  one  thing,"  —  swiftly.  "  That 
you  never  again  come  into  my  sight,  or  into  the 
sight  of  my  wife." 

One  of  Ichabod's  long  hands  extended  in 
gesture. 

"  And  I  insist  you  shall  never  again  use  the 
name  of  Camilla  Maurice  as  your  wife." 

The  old  mocking  smile  sprang  to  Asa 
Arnold's  face. 

"Unconsciously,  you're  amusing,"  he  de- 
[207] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

rided.  "  The  old  story  of  the  mouse  who  for 
bids  the  cat.  .  .  .  You  forget,  man,  she  is 
my  wife." 

Ichabod  stood  up,  seemingly  longer  and 
gaunter  than  ever  before. 

"Good  God,  Arnold,"  he  flashed,  "haven't 
you  the  faintest  element  of  pride,  or  of  con 
sistency  in  your  make-up  ?  Is  it  necessary  for  a 
woman  to  tell  you  more  than  once  that  she  hates 
you  ?  By  your  own  statement  your  marriage, 
even  at  first,  was  merely  of  convenience  ;  but 
even  if  this  weren't  so,  every  principle  of  the 
belief  you  hold  releases  her.  Before  God,  or 
man,  you  haven't  the  slightest  claim,  and  you 
know  it." 

"  And  you  —  " 

"  I  love  her." 

Asa  Arnold  did  not  stir,  but  the  pupils  of 
his  eyes  grew  wider,  until  the  whole  eye  seemed 
black. 

"You  fool!"  he  accented  slowly.  "You 
brazen  egoist !  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that 
others  than  yourself  could  love  ? " 

Score  for  the  little  man.  Ichabod  had  been 
pinked  first. 

[  208  ] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"You  dare  tell  me  to  my  face  you  loved 
her?" 

"I  do." 

"You  lie  I"  blazed  Ichabod.  "Every  word 
and  action  of  your  life  gives  you  the  lie  ! " 

Not  five  minutes  had  passed  since  he  came 
in  and  already  he  had  forgotten  ! 

Asa  Arnold  likewise  was  upon  his  feet  and 
they  two  faced  each  other,  —  a  bed  length  be 
tween;  in  their  minds  the  past  and  future  a 
blank,  the  present  with  its  primitive  animal 
hate  blazing  in  their  eyes. 

"  You  know  what  it  means  to  tell  me  that." 
Arnold's  voice  was  a  full  note  higher  than  usual. 
"You '11  apologize?" 

"  Never.  It 's  true.  You  lied,  and  you  know 
you  lied." 

The  surrounding  world  turned  dark  to  the 
little  man,  and  the  dry-goods  box  with  the  tin 
dipper  on  its  top,  danced  before  his  eyes.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  memory  he  felt  himself 
losing  self-control,  and  by  main  force  of  will  he 
turned  away  to  the  window.  For  the  instant 
all  the  savage  of  his  nature  was  on  the  surface, 

[209] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

and  he  could  fairly  feel  his  fingers  gripping  at 
the  tall  man's  throat. 

A  moment  he  stood  in  the  narrow  south 
window,  full  in  the  smiling  irony  of  Nature's 
sunshine ;  but  only  a  moment.  Then  the  mock 
ing  smile  that  had  become  an  instinctive  part  of 
his  nature  spread  over  his  face. 

"  I  see  but  one  way  to  settle  this  difficulty," 
he  intimated. 

A  taunt  sprang  to  Ichabod's  tongue,  but  was 
as  quickly  repressed. 

"There  is  but  one,  unless  —  "  with  meaning 
pause. 

"  I  repeat,  there  is  but  one." 

Ichabod's  long  face  held  like  wood. 

"  Consider  yourself,  then,  the  challenged 
party." 

They  were  both  very  calm,  now;  the  imme 
diate  exciting  cause  in  the  mind  of  neither.  It 
seemed  as  if  they  had  been  expecting  this  time 
for  years,  had  been  preparing  for  it. 

"  Perhaps,  as  yesterday,  in  the  saloon  ?  "  The 
points  of  the  big  moustaches  twitched  ironically. 
"  I  promise  you  there  '11  be  no  procrastination 
as  —  at  certain  cases  recorded." 

[210] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

The  mockery,  malice  inspired,  was  cleverly 
turned,  and  Ichabod's  big  chin  protruded  om 
inously,  as  he  came  over  and  fairly  towered 
above  the  small  man. 

"Most  assuredly  it'll  not  be  as  yesterday. 
If  we  're  going  to  reverse  civilization,  we  may 
as  well  roll  it  away  back.  We  '11  settle  it  alone, 
and  here." 

Asa  Arnold  smiled  up  into  the  blue  eyes. 

"  You  'd  prefer  to  make  the  adjustment  with 
your  hands,  too,  perhaps  ?  There  'd  be  less  risk, 
considering — "  He  stopped  at  the  look  on  the 
face  above  his.  No  man  vis-a-vis  with  Ichabod 
Maurice  ever  made  accusation  of  cowardice. 
Instead,  instinctive  sarcasm  leaped  to  his  lips. 

"  Not  being  of  the  West,  I  don't  ordinarily 
carry  an  arsenal  with  me,  in  anticipation  of  such 
incidents  as  these.  If  you're  prepared,  how 
ever,  —  "  and  he  paused  again. 

Ichabod  turned  away;  a  terrible  weariness 
and  disgust  of  it  all— of  life,  himself,  the  little 
man,  —  in  his  face.  A  tragedy  would  not  be 
so  bad,  but  this  lingering  comedy  of  death  — 
One  thing  alone  was  in  his  mind :  to  have  it  over, 
and  quickly. 

[211]' 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"I  didn't  expect  — this,  either.  We'll  find 
another  way." 

He  glanced  about  the  room.  A  bed,  the  im 
provised  commode,  a  chair,  a  small  table  with  a 
book  upon  it,  and  a  tallow  candle  —  an  idea 
came  to  him,  and  his  search  terminated. 

"I  may — suggest — "  he  hesitated. 

"Goon." 

Ichabod  took  up  the  candle,  and,  with  his 
pocket-knife,  cut  it  down  until  it  was  a  mere 
stub  in  the  socket,  then  lit  a  match  and  held  the 
flame  to  the  wick,  until  the  tallow  sputtered 
into  burning. 

"You  can  estimate  when  that  light  will  go 
out  ? "  he  intimated  impassively. 

Asa  Arnold  watched  the  tall  man,  steadily, 
as  the  latter  returned  the  candle  to  the  table  and 
drew  out  his  watch. 

"  I  think  so,"  sotto  voce. 

Ichabod  returned  to  his  seat  on  the  bed. 

'  You  are  not  afraid,  perhaps,  to  go  into  the 
dark  alone?" 

"No." 

"  By  your  own  hand  ? " 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"No,"  again,  very  slowly.  Arnold  under 
stood  now. 

"You  swear?"  Ichabod  flashed  a  glance 
with  the  question. 

"I  swear." 

"And  I." 

A  moment  they  both  studied  the  sputtering 
candle. 

"It'll  be  within  fifteen  minutes,"  randomed 
Ichabod. 

Arnold  drew  out  his  watch  slowly. 

"  It  '11  be  longer." 

That  was  all.  Each  had  made  his  choice;  a 
trivial  matter  of  one  second  in  the  candle's  life 
would  decide  which  of  these  two  men  would  die 
by  his  own  hand. 

For  a  minute  there  was  no  sound.  They 
could  not  even  hear  their  breathing.  Then 
Arnold  cleared  his  throat. 

"  You  didn't  say  when  the  loser  must  pay  his 
debt,"  he  suggested. 

Ichabod's  voice  in  answer  was  a  trifle  husky. 

"It  won't  be  necessary."  A  vision  of  the 
future  flashed,  sinister,  inevitable.  "  The  man 
who  loses  won't  care  to  face  the  necessity  long." 

[213] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Five  minutes  more  passed.  Down  the  street 
the  blacksmith  was  hammering  steadily.  Be 
neath  the  window  the  group  of  farmers  had 
separated;  their  departing  footsteps  tapping 
into  distance  and  silence. 

Minna  went  to  the  street  door,  calling  loudly 
for  Hans,  Jr.,  who  had  strayed,  —  and  both 
men  started  at  the  sound.  The  quick  catch  of 
their  breathing  was  now  plainly  audible. 

Arnold  shifted  in  his  chair. 
'You  swear  —  "  his  voice  rang  unnaturally 
sharp,  and  he  paused  to  moisten  his  throat, — 
"  you  swear  before  God  you  '11  abide  by  this  ? " 

"  I  swear  before  God,"  repeated  Ichabod 
slowly. 

A  second,  and  the  little  man  followed  in  echo. 

"  And  I  —  I  swear,  I,  too,  will  abide." 

Neither  man  remembered  that  one  of  this 
twain,  who  gave  oath  before  the  Deity,  was  an 
agnostic,  the  other  an  atheist ! 

A  lonely  south  wind  was  rising,  and  above 
the  tinkle  of  the  blacksmith's  hammer  there 
sounded  the  tap  of  the  light  shade  as  it  flapped 
in  the  wind  against  the  window-pane.  Low, 
drowsy,  moaning, — typical  breath  of  prairie, 

[214] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

— it  droned  through  the  loosely  built  house, 
with  sound  louder,  but  not  unlike  the  perpetual 
roar  of  a  great  sea-shell. 

Ten  minutes  passed,  and  the  men  sat  very 
still.  Both  their  faces  were  white,  and  in  the 
angle  of  the  jaw  of  each  the  muscles  were  locked 
hard.  Ichabod  was  leaning  near  the  candle.  It 
sputtered  and  a  tiny  globule  of  hot  tallow 
struck  his  face.  He  winced  and  wiped  the  drop 
off  quickly.  Observing,  Arnold  smiled  and 
opened  his  lips  as  if  to  make  comment;  then 
closed  them  suddenly,  and  the  smile  passed. 

Two  minutes  more  the  watches  ticked  off; 
very,  very  slowly.  Neither  of  the  men  had 
thought,  beforehand,  of  this  time  of  waiting. 
Big  drops  of  sweat  were  forming  on  both  their 
faces,  and  in  the  ears  of  each  the  blood  sang 
madly.  A  haze,  as  from  the  dropping  of  a 
shade,  seemed  to  have  formed  and  hung  over 
the  room,  and  in  unison  sounds  from  without 
acquired  a  certain  faintness,  like  that  born  of 
distance.  Through  it  all  the  two  men  sat 
motionless,  watching  the  candle  and  the  time, 
as  the  fascinated  bird  watches  its  charmer;  as 
the  subject  watches  the  hypnotist,  —  as  if  the 

[215] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

passive  exercise  were  the  one  imperative  thing 
in  the  world. 

"  Thirteen  minutes." 

Unconsciously,  Arnold  was  counting  aloud. 
The  flame  was  very  low,  now,  and  he  started  to 
move  his  chair  closer,  then  sank  back,  a  smile, 
almost  ghastly,  upon  his  lips.  The  blaze  had 
reached  the  level  of  the  socket,  and  was  growing 
smaller  and  smaller.  Two  minutes  yet  to  burn  I 
He  had  lost. 

He  tried  to  turn  his  eyes  away,  but  they 
seemed  fastened  to  the  spot,  and  he  powerless. 
It  was  as  though  death,  from  staring  him  in  the 
face,  had  suddenly  gripped  him  hard.  The 
panorama  of  his  past  life  flashed  through  his 
mind.  The  thoughts  of  the  drowning  man,  of 
the  miner  who  hears  the  rumble  of  crumbling 
earth,  of  the  prisoner  helpless  and  hopeless 
who  feels  the  first  touch  of  flame,  —  common 
thought  of  all  these  wrere  his ;  and  in  a  space  of 
time  which,  though  seeming  to  him  endless,  was 
in  reality  but  seconds. 

Then  came  the  duller  reaction  and  the  events 
of  the  last  few  minutes  repeated  themselves,  im 
personally,  spectacularly,  —  as  though  they 

[216] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

were  the  actions  of  another  man;  one  for 
whom  he  felt  very  sorry.  He  even  went  into 
the  future  and  saw  this  same  man  lying  down 
with  a  tiny  bottle  in  his  hand,  preparing  for 
the  sleep  from  which  there  would  be  no  awaken 
ing, — the  sleep  which,  in  anticipation,  seemed 
so  pleasant. 

Concomitant  with  this  thought  the  visionary 
shaded  into  the  real,  and  there  came  the  deter 
mination  to  act  at  once,  this  very  afternoon,  as 
soon  as  Ichabod  had  gone.  He  even  felt  a  little 
relief  at  the  decision.  After  all,  it  was  so  much 
simpler  than  if  he  had  won,  for  then  —  then  — 
He  laughed  gratingly  at  the  thought.  Cursed 
if  he  would  have  known  what  to  have  done, 
then! 

The  sound  roused  him  and  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  A  minute  had  passed,  fourteen  from 
the  first  and  the  flame  still  sputtered.  Was  it 
possible  after  all — after  he  had  decided  —  that 
he  was  not  to  lose,  that  the  decision  was  unnec 
essary  ?  There  was  not  in  his  mind  the  slightest 
feeling  of  personal  elation  at  the  prospect,  but 
rather  a  sense  of  injury  that  such  a  scurvy  trick 
[217] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

should  be  foisted  off  upon  him.  It  was  like 
going  to  a  funeral  and  being  confronted,  sud 
denly,  with  the  grinning  head  of  the  supposed 
dead  projecting  through  the  coffin  lid.  It  was 
unseemly ! 

Only  a  minute  more:  a  half  now  —  yes,  he 
would  win.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  that  his 
forehead  was  wet,  and  he  mopped  his  face  with 
his  handkerchief  jerkily;  then  sank  back  in  the 
chair,  instinctively  shooting  forward  his  cuffs 
in  motion  habitual. 

"  Fifteen  seconds."  There  could  be  no  ques 
tion  now  of  the  result;  and  the  outside  world, 
banished  for  the  once,  returned.  The  black 
smith  was  hammering  again,  the  strokes  two 
seconds  apart,  and  the  fancy  seized  the  little 
man  to  finish  counting  by  the  ring  of  the  anvil. 

"  Twelve,  ten,  eight,"  he  counted  slowly. 
"  Six "  was  forming  on  the  tip  of  the  tongue 
when  of  a  sudden  the  tiny  flame  veered  far  over 
toward  the  holder,  sputtered  and  went  out.  For 
the  first  time  in  those  interminable  minutes, 
Arnold  looked  at  his  companion.  Ichabod's 
face  was  within  a  foot  of  the  table,  and  in  line 

[218  ] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

with  the  direction  the  flame  had  veered.  Swift 
as  thought  the  small  man  was  on  his  feet,  white 
anger  in  his  face. 

"  You  blew  that  candle  ! "  he  challenged. 

Ichabod's  head  dropped  into  his  hands.  An 
awful  horror  of  himself  fell  crushingly  upon 
him;  an  abhorrence  of  the  selfishness  that  could 
have  forgotten — what  he  forgot;  and  for  so 
long,  —  almost  irrevocably  long.  Mingled  with 
this  feeling  was  a  sudden  thanksgiving  for  the 
boon  of  which  he  was  unworthy;  the  memory 
at  the  eleventh  hour,  in  time  to  do  as  he  had 
done  before  his  word  was  passed.  Arnold 
strode  across  the  room,  his  breath  coming  fast, 
his  eyes  flashing  fire.  He  shook  the  tall  man 
by  the  shoulder  roughly. 

4 'You  blew  that  flame,  I  say  I" 

Ichabod  looked  up  at  the  furious,  dark  face 
almost  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  I  blew  it,"  he  corroborated  absently. 

"  It  would  have  burned  longer." 

"Perhaps  — I  don't  know." 

Arnold  moved  back  a  step  and  the  old  smile, 
mocking,  maddening,  spread  over  his  face; 

[219] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

tilting,  perpendicular,  the  tips  of  the  big 
moustaches. 

"After  all— "  very  slowly— "after  all, 
then,  you  're  a  coward." 

The  tall  man  stood  up;  six-feet-two,  long, 
bony,  immovable :  Ichabod  himself  again. 

"You  know  that's  a  lie." 

"You'll  meet  me  again,  —  another  way, 
then?" 

"No,  never!" 

"  I  repeat,  you  're  a  cursed  coward." 

"  I  'd  be  a  coward  if  I  did  meet  you,"  quickly. 

Something  in  Ichabod's  voice  caught  the  little 
man's  ear  and  held  him  silent,  as,  for  a  long 
half -minute,  the  last  time  in  their  lives,  the  two 
men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"You'll  perhaps  explain."  Arnold's  voice 
was  cold  as  death.  "  You  have  a  reason  ? " 

Ichabod  walked  slowly  over  to  the  window 
and  leaned  against  the  frame.  Standing  there, 
the  spring  sunshine  fell  full  upon  his  face, 
drawing  clear  the  furrows  at  the  angles  of  his 
eyes  and  the  gray  threads  of  his  hair.  He 
paused  a  moment,  looking  out  over  the  broad 
prairie  shimmering  indistinctly  in  the  heat,  and 

[220] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

the  calm  of  it  all  took  hold  of  him,  shone  in  his 
face. 

"I've  a  reason,"  very  measuredly,  "but  it's 
not  that  I  fear  death,  or  you."  He  took  up  his 
hat  and  smoothed  it  absently.  "In  future  I 
shall  neither  seek,  nor  avoid  you.  Do  what  you 
wish — and  God  judge  us  both."  Without  a 
glance  at  the  other  man,  he  turned  toward  the 
door. 

Arnold  moved  a  step,  as  if  to  prevent  him 
going. 

"I  repeat,  it's  my  right  to  know  why  you 
refuse."  His  feet  shifted  uneasily  upon  the 
floor.  "  Is  it  because  of  another — Eleanor  ?  " 

Ichabod  paused. 

"Yes,"  very  slowly.  "It's  because  of 
Eleanor — and  another." 

The  tall  man's  hand  was  upon  the  knob,  but 
this  time  there  was  no  interruption.  An  instant 
he  hesitated;  then  absently,  slowly,  the  door 
opened  and  closed.  A  moment  later  indistinct, 
descending  steps  sounded  on  the  stairway. 

Alone,  Asa  Arnold  stood  immovable,  looking 
blindly  at  the  closed  door,  listening  until  the 
tapping  feet  had  passed  into  silence.  Then,  in 

[221] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

a  motion  indescribable,  of  pain  and  of  abandon, 
he  sank  back  into  the  single  chair. 

His  dearest  enemy  would  have  pitied  the 
little  man  at  that  moment ! 


[222] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 


CHAPTER  VII  —  THE  PRICE  OF  THE  LEAP 

IN  the  chronology  of  the  little  town,  day 
followed  day,  as  monotonously  as  ticks  the 
tall  clock  on  the  wall.  Only  in  multiple  they 
merged  into  the  seasons  which  glided  so 
smoothly,  one  into  the  other,  that  the  change 
was  unnoticed,  until  it  had  taken  place. 

Thus  three  months  passed  by,  and  man's 
work  for  the  year  was  nearly  done.  The  face 
of  the  prairie  had  become  one  of  many  colors ; 
eternal  badge  of  civilization  as  opposed  to  Na 
ture,  who  paints  each  season  with  its  own  hue. 
Beside  the  roadways  great,  rank  sunflowers 
turned  their  glaring  yellow  faces  to  the  light. 
In  every  direction  stretched  broad  fields  of  flax ; 
unequally  ripening,  their  color  scheme  ranging 
from  sky  blue  of  blossoms  to  warm  browns  of 
maturity.  Blotches  of  sod  corn  added  here  and 
there  a  dash  of  green  to  the  picture.  Surround 
ing  all,  a  setting  for  all,  the  unbroken  virgin 
prairie,  mottled  green  and  brown,  stretched, 

[223] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

smiling,  harmonious,  beneficent;  a  land  of 
promise  and  of  plenty  for  generations  yet 
unborn. 

All  through  the  long,  hot  summer  Asa 
Arnold  had  stayed  in  town,  smoking  a  big 
pipe  in  front  of  the  hotel  of  Hans  Becher. 
Indolent,  abnormally  indolent,  a  stranger  see 
ing  him  thus  would  have  commented ;  but,  save 
Hans  the  confiding,  none  other  of  the  many 
interested  observers  were  deceived.  No  man 
merely  indolent  sleeps  neither  by  night  nor  by 
day;  and  it  seemed  the  little  man  never  slept. 
No  man  merely  indolent  sits  wide-eyed  hour 
after  hour,  gazing  blankly  at  the  earth  beneath 
his  feet — and  uttering  never  a  word.  Brood 
ing,  not  dreaming,  was  Asa  Arnold;  brooding 
over  the  eternal  problem  of  right  and  wrong. 
And,  as  passed  the  slow  weeks,  he  moved  back 
— back  on  the  trail  of  civilization,  back  until 
Passion  and  not  Reason  was  the  god  enthroned; 
back  until  one  thought  alone  was  with  him 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  —  and  that  thought 
preponderant,  overmastering,  deadly  hate. 

Observant  Curtis,  the  doctor,  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

[  224  ]' 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"  The  old,  old  trail,"  he  satirized. 

It  was  to  Bud  Evans,  the  little  agent,  that  he 
made  the  observation. 

"  Which  has  no  ending,"  completed  the  latter. 

The  doctor  shrugged  afresh. 

"  That  has  one  inevitable  termination,"  he 
refuted. 

«  Which  is— " 

"Madness  —  sheer  madness." 

The  agent  was  silent  a  moment. 

"And  the  end  of  that  ?"  he  suggested. 

Curtis  pursed  his  lips. 

"  Tragedy,  or  a  strait- jacket.  The  former, 
in  this  instance." 

Evans  was  silent  longer  than  before. 

"Do  you  really  mean  that  ?"  he  queried  at 
last,  significantly. 

"  I  Ve  warned  Maurice,"  —  sententiously.  "  I 
can  do  no  more." 

"And  he?  "quickly. 

"  Thanked  me." 

"  That  was  all?" 

"That  was  all." 

The  two  friends  looked  at  each  other, 
steadily;  yet,  though  they  said  no  more,  each 

[225] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

knew  the  thought  of  the  other,  each  knew  that 
in  future  no  move  of  Asa  Arnold's  would  pass 
unnoticed,  unchallenged. 

Again,  weeks,  a  month,  passed  without  inci 
dent.  It  was  well  along  in  the  fall  and  of  an 
early  evening  that  a  vague  rumor  of  the  un 
usual  passed  swiftly,  by  word  of  mouth, 
throughout  the  tiny  town.  Only  a  rumor  it 
was,  but  sufficient  to  set  every  man  within 
hearing  in  motion. 

On  this  night  Hans  Becher  had  eaten  his 
supper  and  returned  to  the  hotel  office,  as  was 
his  wont,  for  an  evening  smoke,  when,  without 
apparent  reason,  Bud  Evans  and  Jim  Donovan, 
the  blacksmith,  came  quietly  in  and  sat  down. 

"  Evening,"  they  nodded,  and  looked  about 
them. 

A  minute  later  Dr.  Curtis  and  Hank  Judge, 
the  machine  man,  dropped  unostentatiously 
into  chairs.  They  likewise  muttered  "Even 
ing,"  and  made  observation  from  under  their 
hat-brims.  Others  followed  rapidly,  until  the 
room  was  full  and  dark  figures  waited  outside. 
At  last  Curtis  spoke. 

[226] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

"Your  boarder,  Asa  Arnold,  where  is  he, 
Hans?" 

The  unsuspecting  German  blew  a  cloud  of 
smoke. 

"  He  a  while  ago  went  out."  Then,  as  an 
afterthought:  "He  will  return  soon." 

Silence  once  more  for  a  time,  and  a  steadily 
thickening  haze  of  smoke  in  the  room. 

"  Did  he  have  supper,  Hans  ? "  queried  Bud 
Evans,  impatiently. 

Again  the  German's  face  expressed  surprise. 

"  No,  it  is  waiting  for  him.  He  went  to  shoot 
a  rabbit  he  saw." 

The  men  were  on  their  feet. 

"He  took  a  gun,  Hans?" 

"A  rifle,  to  be  sure."  The  mild  brown  eyes 
glanced  up  reproachfully.  "A  man  does  not 
go  hunting  without  —  ...  What  is  this  ! " 
he  completed  in  consternation,  as,  finding  him 
self  suddenly  alone,  he  hurried  outside  and 
stood  confusedly  scratching  his  bushy  poll,  in 
the  block  of  light  surrounding  the  open  door 
way. 

The  yard  was  deserted.  As  one  snuffs  a 
candle,  the  men  had  vanished.  Hans'  pipe  had 
[227] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

gone  out  and  he  went  inside  for  a  match. 
Though  the  stars  fell,  the  German  must  needs 
smoke.  Only  a  minute  he  was  gone,  but  during 
that  time  a  group  of  horsemen  had  gathered  in 
the  street.  Others  were  coming  across  lots,  and 
still  others  were  emerging  from  the  darkness  of 
alleys.  Some  were  mounted;  some  led  by  the 
rein,  wiry  little  bronchos.  Watching,  it  almost 
seemed  to  the  German  that  they  sprang  from 
the  ground. 

"  Are  you  all  ready  ? "  called  a  voice,  Bud 
Evans'  voice. 

"Here—" 

"Here—" 

"All  ready?" 

"Yes  —  " 

"We 're  off,  then." 

There  was  a  sudden,  confused  trampling,  as 
of  cattle  in  stampede;  a  musical  creaking  of 
heavy  saddles ;  a  knife-like  swish  of  many  quirts 
through  the  air;  a  chorus  of  dull,  chesty  groans 
as  the  rowels  of  long  spurs  bit  the  flanks  of  the 
mustangs,  and  they  were  gone  —  down  the  nar 
row  street,  out  upon  the  prairie,  their  ho6f  beats 
pattering  diminuendo  into  silence;  a  cloud  of 

[228] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

dust,  grayish  in  the  starlight,  marking  the  way 
they  had  taken. 

Jim  Donovan,  the  blacksmith,  came  running 
excitedly  up  from  a  side  street.  He  stopped  in 
front  of  the  hotel,  breathlessly.  Holding  his 
sides,  he  followed  with  his  eyes  the  trail  of  dusc 
leading  out  into  the  night. 

"  Have  they  gone  ? "  he  panted.  "  I  can't 
find  another  horse  in  town." 

"  Where  is  it  to  ? "  sputtered  the  German. 

"  Have  they  gone,  I  say  ? " 

Hans  gasped. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure." 

"They'll  never  make  it."  The  blacksmith 
mopped  his  brow  with  conviction.  "  He  has  an 
hour's  start." 

Hans  grasped  the  big  man  by  the  coat. 

"  Who  is  too  late  ? "  he  emphasized.  "  Where 
are  they  going  ?  " 

Jim  Donovan  turned  about,  great  pity  for 
such  density  in  his  eyes. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  don't  understand  ?  It 's 
to  Ichabod  Maurice's  they  're  going,  to  tell  him 
of  Arnold."  The  speaker  mopped  his  face 

[229] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

anew.  "  It 's  useless  though.  They  're  too  late," 
he  completed. 

"But  Arnold  is  not  there,"  protested  the 
German.  "  He  went  for  a  rabbit,  out  on  the 
breaking.  He  so  told  me." 

"He  lied  to  you.  He's  mad.  I  tell  you 
they're  too  late,"  repeated  the  smith,  obsti 
nately. 

Hans  clung  tenaciously  to  the  collar. 

"  Some  one  knew  and  told  them  ? "  He 
pointed  in  the  direction  the  dust  indicated. 

"Yes,  Bud  Evans;  but  they  wouldn't  be 
lieve  him  at  first,  and"  —  bitterly  —  "and 
waited."  Donovan  shook  himself  free,  and 
started  down  the  walk.  "  I  'm  going  to  bed," 
he  announced  conclusively. 

Meanwhile  the  cloud  of  dust  was  moving 
out  over  the  prairie  like  the  wind.  The  pace 
was  terrific,  and  the  tough  little  ponies  were 
soon  puffing  steadily.  Small  game,  roused 
from  its  sleep  by  the  roadside,  sprang  winging 
into  the  night.  Once  a  coyote,  surprised,  ran  a 
distance  confusedly  ahead  in  the  roadway ;  then, 
an  indistinct  black  ball,  it  vanished  amongst  the 
tall  grass. 

[230] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

Well  out  on  the  prairie,  Bud  Evans,  the 
leader,  raised  in  his  stirrups  and  looked  ahead. 
There  was  no  light  beyond  where  the  little  cot 
tage  should  be.  The  rowels  of  his  spur  dug 
anew  at  the  flank  of  his  pony  as  he  turned  a 
voice  like  a  fog-horn  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"The  place  is  dark,  boys,"  he  called. 
"  Hurry." 

Answering,  a  muttering  sound,  not  unlike  an 
approaching  storm,  passed  along  the  line,  and 
in  accompaniment  the  quirts  cut  the  air  anew. 

Silent  as  the  grave  was  the  little  farmstead 
when,  forty  odd  minutes  from  the  time  of  start 
ing,  they  steamed  up  at  the  high  fence  bound 
ing  the  yard.  One  of  Ichabod's  farm  horses 
whinnied  a  lone  greeting  from  the  barn  as  they 
hastily  dismounted  and  swarmed  within  the 
inclosure. 

"  We  're  too  late,"  prophesied  a  voice. 

"  I  'm  glad  my  name 's  not  Arnold,  if  we  are," 
responded  another,  threateningly. 

Hurrying  up  the  path  in  advance,  the  little 
land-agent  stumbled  over  a  soft,  dark  object, 
and  a  curse  fell  from  his  lips  as  he  recognized 
the  dead  body  of  the  big  collie. 

L  "31  J 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Yes,  we  're  too  late,"  he  echoed. 

The  door  of  the  house  swung  ajar,  creaking 
upon  its  hinges ;  and,  as  penetrates  the  advance 
wave  of  a  flood,  the  men  swarmed  through  the 
doorway  inside,  until  the  narrow  room  was 
blocked.  Simultaneously,  like  torches,  lighted 
matches  appeared  aloft  in  their  hands,  and  the 
tiny  whitewashed  room  flashed  into  light.  As 
simultaneously  there  sprang  from  the  mouth  of 
each  man  an  oath,  and  another,  and  another. 
Waiting  outside,  not  a  listener  but  knew  the 
meaning  of  that  sound;  and  big,  hairy  faces 
crowded  tightly  to  the  one  small  window. 

For  a  moment  not  a  man  in  the  line  stirred. 
Death  was  to  them  no  stranger;  but  death  such 
as  this — 

In  more  than  one  hand  the  match  burned 
down  until  it  left  a  mark  like  charcoal,  and 
without  calling  attention.  One  and  all  they 
stood  spellbound,  their  eyes  on  the  floor,  their 
lips  unconsciously  uttering  the  speech  universal 
of  anger  and  of  horror,  the  instinctive  lan 
guage  of  anathema. 

On  the  floor,  sprawling,  as  falls  a  lifeless 
body,  lay  the  long  Ichabod.  On  his  forehead, 

[232] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

almost  geometrically  near  the  centre,  was  a  tiny, 
black  spot,  around  it  a  lighter  red  blotch;  his 
face  otherwise  very  white ;  his  hair,  on  the  side 
toward  which  he  leaned,  a  little  matted;  that 
was  all. 

Prostrate  across  him,  in  an  attitude  of  utter 
abandon,  reposed  the  body  of  a  woman,  soft, 
graceful,  motionless  now  as  that  of  the  man: 
the  body  of  Camilla  Maurice.  One  hand  had 
held  his  head  and  was  stained  dark.  On  her  lips 
was  another  stain,  but  lighter.  The  meaning  of 
that  last  mark  came  as  a  flash  to  the  spectators, 
and  the  room  grew  still  as  the  figures  on  the 
floor. 

Suddenly  in  the  silence  the  men  caught  their 
breath,  with  the  quick  guttural  note  that  an 
nounces  the  unexpected.  That  there  was  no 
remaining  life  they  had  taken  for  granted  — 
and  Camilla's  lips  had  moved  !  They  stared  as 
at  sight  of  a  ghost;  all  except  Curtis,  the 
physician. 

"  A  lamp,  men,"  he  demanded,  pressing  his 
ear  to  Camilla's  chest. 

"  Help  me  here,  Evans,"  he  continued  with 
out  turning.  "  I  think  she 's  fainted  is  all,"  and 

[283] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

together  they  carried  their  burden  into  the  tiny 
sleeping-room,  closing  the  door  behind. 

That  instant  Ole,  the  Swede,  thrust  a  curious 
head  in  at  the  outer  doorway.  He  had  noticed 
the  light  and  the  gathering,  and  came  to  ascer 
tain  their  meaning.  Wondering,  his  big  eyes 
passed  around  the  waiting  group  and  from  them 
to  the  floor.  With  that  look  self -consciousness 
left  him ;  he  crowded  to  the  front,  bending  over 
the  tall  man  and  speaking  his  name. 

"  Mr.  Maurice,"  he  called.    "  Mr.  Maurice." 

He  snatched  off  his  own  coat,  rolling  it  under 
Ichabod's  head,  and  with  his  handkerchief 
touched  the  dark  spot  on  the  forehead.  It 
was  clotted  already  and  hardening,  and  realiza 
tion  came  to  the  boy  Swede.  He  stood  up, 
facing  the  men,  the  big  veins  in  his  throat 
throbbing. 

"Who  did  this  ? "  he  thundered,  crouching 
for  a  spring  like  a  great  dog.  "  Who  did  this,  I 
say?" 

It  was  the  call  to  action.  In  the  sudden 
horror  of  the  tragedy  the  big  fellows  had  mo 
mentarily  forgotten  their  own  grim  epilogue. 
Now,  at  the  words,  they  turned  toward  the 

[234] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

door.  But  the  Swede  was  in  advance,  blocking 
the  passage. 

"  Tell  me  first  who  did  this  thing,"  he  chal 
lenged,  threateningly. 

A  hand  was  laid  gently  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Asa  Arnold,  my  boy,"  answered  a  quiet 
voice,  which  continued,  in  response  to  a  sudden 
thought,  "You  live  near  here;  have  you  seen 
him  to-night?" 

The  Swede  dropped  the  bar. 

"The  little  man  who  stays  with  Hans 
Becher?" 

The  questioner  nodded. 

"  Yes,  a  half -hour  ago."  The  boy-man  un 
derstood  now.  "He  stopped  at  my  house, 
and—" 

"  Which  direction  did  he  go  ? " 

Ole  stepped  outside,  his  arm  stretched  over 
the  prairie,  white  now  in  the  moonlight. 

"  That  way,"  he  indicated.    "  East." 

As  there  had  been  quiescence  before,  now 
there  was  action.  No  charge  of  cavalry  was 
ever  more  swift  than  their  sudden  departure. 

"  East,  toward  Schooner's  ranch,"  was  called 
and  repeated  as  they  made  their  way  back  to  the 

[235] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

road;  and,  following,  the  wiry  little  bronchos 
groaned  in  unison  as  the  back  cinch  to  each  one 
of  the  heavy  saddles,  was,  with  one  accord, 
drawn  tight.  Then,  widening  out  upon  the 
reflected  whiteness  of  prairie,  there  spread  a 
great  black  crescent.  A  moment  later  came 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  quivering  call  of  a 
lone  coyote. 

Ole  watched  them  out  of  sight,  then  turned 
back  to  the  door ;  the  mood  of  the  heroic  passed, 
once  more  the  timid,  retiring  Swede.  But  now 
he  was  not  alone.  Bud  Evans  was  quietly  work 
ing  over  the  body  on  the  floor,  laying  it  out 
decently  as  the  quick  ever  lay  out  the  dead. 

"  Evans,"  called  the  doctor  from  the  bed 
room.  As  the  agent  responded,  Ole  heard  the 
smothered  cry  of  a  woman  in  pain. 

The  big  boy  hesitated,  then  sat  down  on  the 
doorstep.  There  was  nothing  now  for  him 
to  do,  and  suddenly  he  felt  very  tired.  His 
head  dropped  listlessly  into  his  hands;  like  a 
great  dog,  he  waited,  watching. 

Minutes  passed.  On  the  table  the  oil  lamp 
sputtered  and  burned  lower.  Out  in  the  stable 
the  horse  repeated  its  former  challenging 

[236] 


ARCADIA  IN  AVERNUS 

whinny.  Once  again  through  the  partition  the 
listener  caught  the  choking  wail  of  pain,  and 
the  muffled  sound  of  the  doctor's  voice  in 
answer. 

At  last  Bud  Evans  came  to  the  door,  his  face 
very  white.  "  Water,"  he  requested,  and  Ole  ran 
to  the  well  and  back.  Then,  impassive,  he  sat 
down  again  to  wait. 

Time  passed,  so  long  a  time  it  seemed  to  the 
watcher  that  the  riders  must  soon  be  returning. 
Finally  Evans  emerged  from  the  side  room, 
walking  absently,  his  face  gray  in  the  lamplight. 

The  Swede  stood  up. 

"  Camilla  Maurice,  is  she  hurt  ? "  he  asked. 

The  little  agent  busied  himself  making  a  fire. 

"  She 's  dead,"  he  answered  slowly. 

"  Dead,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dead," — very  quietly. 

The  fire  blazed  up  and  lit  the  room,  shining 
unpityingly  upon  the  face  of  the  man  on  the 
floor. 

Evans  noticed,  and  drawing  off  his  own  coat 
spread  it  over  the  face  and  hands,  covering  them 
from  sight ;  then,  uncertain,  he  returned  and  sat 
[237] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

down,  mechanically  holding  his  palms  to  the 
blaze. 

A  moment  later  Dr.  Curtis  appeared  at 
the  tiny  bedroom  entrance;  and,  emerging 
as  the  little  man  had  done  before  him,  he  closed 
the  door  softly  behind.  In  his  arms  he  carried 
a  blanket,  carefully  rolled.  From  the  depths  of 
its  folds,  as  he  slowly  crossed  the  room  toward 
the  stove,  there  escaped  a  sudden  cry,  muffled, 
unmistakable. 

The  doctor  sank  down  wearily  in  a  chair. 
Ole,  the  boy-faced,  without  a  question  brought 
in  fresh  wood,  laying  it  down  on  the  floor  very, 
very  softly. 

"Will  he— live?"  asked  Bud  Evans,  sud 
denly,  with  an  uncertain  glance  at  the  obscuring 
blanket;  and  hearing  the  query,  the  Swede 
paused  in  his  work  to  listen. 

The  big  doctor  hesitated,  and  cleared  his 
throat. 

"I  think  so;  though  —  God  forgive  me  —  I 
hope  not."  And  he  cleared  his  throat  again. 


[238] 


JOURNEY'S  END 


STEVE  ! "  It  was  the  girl  who  spoke,  but 
the  man  did  not  seem  to  hear.  He  was 
staring  through  the  window,  unseeingly,  into 
the  heart  of  his  bitter  foe,  Winter.  He  sat  si 
lent,  helpless. 

"Steve!" 

At  last  he  awoke. 

"Mollie!  — girlie!" 

An  hour  had  passed  since  he  left  the  doctor's 
office  to  reel  and  stagger  drunkenly  through  the 
slush  and  the  sleet,  and  the  icy  blasts,  which  bit 
cruelly  into  his  very  vitals. 

Now  he  and  Mollie  were  alone  in  the  tiny 
library.  Babcock  had  been  warmed,  washed, 
fed.  Seemingly  without  volition  on  his  part, 
he  was  before  the  hard-coal  blaze,  his  feet  on  the 
fender,  the  light  carefully  shaded  from  his  eyes. 
Once  upon  a  time  — 

[239] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

But  Steve  Babcock,  master  mechanic,  had 
not  lost  his  nerve  —  once  upon  a  time. 

"  Steve  " — the  voice  was  as  soft  as  the  wide 
brown  eyes,  as  the  dainty  oval  chin  —  "Steve, 
tell  me  what  it  is." 

The  man's  hand,  palm  outward,  dropped 
wearily,  eloquently.  That  was  all. 

"  But  tell  me,"  the  girl's  chair  came  closer,  so 
that  she  might  have  touched  him,  "  you  went  to 
see  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  he—  ?" 

Again  the  silent,  hopeless  gesture,  more  fear- 
inspiring  than  words. 

"Don't  keep  me  in  suspense,  please."  A 
small  hand  was  on  the  man's  knee,  now,  frankly 
unashamed.  "  Tell  me  what  he  said." 

For  an  instant  there  was  silence,  then  Bab- 
cock  shrugged  awkwardly,  in  an  effort  at  non 
chalance. 

"He  said  I  was  —  was  —  "  in  spite  of  him 
self,  the  speaker  paused  to  moisten  his  lips  — 
"a  dead  man." 

"Steve!" 

Not  a  word  this  time ;  not  even  a  shrug. 

[  240  ] 


JOURNEY'S   END 

"Steve,  you — you're  not — not  joking  with 
me?" 

Lower  and  lower,  still  in  silence,  dropped  the 
man's  chin. 

"  Steve,"  in  a  steadier  voice,  "  please  answer 
me.  You  're  not  joking  ? " 

"Joking !"  At  last  the  query  had  pierced 
the  fear-dulled  brain.  "  Joking !  God,  no  1 
It 's  real,  real,  deadly  real,  that 's  what  .  .  . 
Oh,  Mollie — !"  Instinctively,  as  a  child,  the 
man's  head  had  gone  to  the  girl's  lap.  Though 
never  before  had  they  spoken  of  love  or  of  mar 
riage,  neither  noted  the  incongruity  now.  "  It 's 
all  over.  We'll  never  be  married,  never  again 
get  out  into  the  country  together,  never  even  see 
the  green  grass  next  Spring  —  at  least  I  won't 
—  never.  .  .  .  Oh,  Mollie,  Mollie !"  The 
man's  back  rose  and  fell  spasmodically.  His 
voice  broke.  "  Mollie,  make  me  forget;  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  it.  Can't !  Can't ! " 

Not  a  muscle  of  the  girl's  body  stirred;  she 
made  no  sound.  No  one  in  advance  would  have 
believed  it  possible,  but  it  was  true.  Five  min 
utes  passed.  The  man  became  quiet. 

[241] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Steve,"  the  voice  was  very  even,  "  what  else 
did  the  doctor  say  ? " 

"  Eh  ? "  It  was  the  doddering  query  of  an 
old  man. 

The  girl  repeated  the  question,  slowly,  with 
infinite  patience,  as  though  she  were  speaking 
to  a  child. 

"  What  else  did  the  doctor  say  ? " 

Her  tranquillity  in  a  measure  calmed  the  man. 

"  Oh,  he  said  a  lot  of  things;  but  that 's  all  I 
remember — what  I  told  you.  It  was  the  last 
thing,  and  he  kind  of  tilted  back  in  his  chair. 
The  spring  needed  oil;  it  fairly  screamed.  I 
can  hear  it  now. 

" '  Steve  Babcock,'  said  he,  *  you  Ve  got  to  go 
some  place  where  it 's  drier,  where  the  air 's  pure 
and  clean  and  sweet  the  year  round.  Mexico 's 
the  spot  for  you,  or  somewhere  in  the  Far  West 
where  you  can  spend  all  your  time  in  the  open 
—  under  the  roof  of  Heaven.' 

"  He  leaned  forward,  and  again  that  cursed 
spring  interrupted. 

"  *  If  you  don't  go,  and  go  right  away/  he 
said,  '  as  sure  as  I  'm  talking  to  you,  you  're  a 
dead  man.' " 

[242] 


JOURNEY'S   END 

Babcock  straightened,  and,  leaden-eyed, 
looked  dully  into  the  blaze. 

"Those,"  he  whispered,  "were  his  last 
words." 

"  And  if  you  do  go  ? " — very  quietly. 

"He  said  I  had  a  chance  —  a  fighting 
chance."  Once  more  the  hopeless,  deprecatory 
gesture. 

"  But  what 's  the  use  ?  You  know,  as  well  as 
I,  that  I  have  n't  a  hundred  dollars  to  my  name. 
He  might  just  as  well  have  told  me  to  go  to  the 
moon. 

"  We  poor  folks  are  like  rats  in  a  trap  when 
they  turn  the  water  on — helpless.  We  —  " 

Babcock  had  wandered  on,  forgetting,  for 
the  moment,  that  it  was  his  own  case  he  was 
analyzing.  Now  of  a  sudden  it  recurred  to  him, 
cumulatively,  crushingly  and,  as  before,  his 
head  instinctively  sought  refuge. 

"We  can't  do  anything  but  take  our  medi 
cine,  Mollie  —  just  take  our  medicine." 

Patter,  patter  sounded  the  sleet  against  the 
window-panes,  mingling  with  the  roar  of  the 
wind  in  the  chimney,  with  the  short,  quick 
breaths  of  the  man.  In  silence  he  reached  out, 

[243] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

took  one  of  the  giiTs  hands  captive,  and  held  it 
against  his  cheek. 

For  a  minute  —  five  minutes  —  she  did  not 
stir,  did  not  utter  a  sound;  only  the  soft  oval 
face  tightened  until  its  gentle  outlines  grew 
sharp,  and  the  brown  skin  almost  white. 

All  at  once  her  lips  compressed;  she  had 
reached  a  decision. 

"  Steve,  sit  up,  please;  I  can  talk  to  you  bet 
ter  so."  Pityingly,  protectingly,  she  placed  an 
arm  around  him  and  drew  him  close ;  not  as  man 
to  maid,  but  —  ah,  the  pity  of  it !  —  as  a  feeble 
child  to  its  mother. 

"  Listen  to  what  I  say.  To-day  is  Thursday. 
Next  Monday  you  are  going  West,  as  the 
doctor  orders." 

"What  —  what  did  you  say,  Mollie  ?" 

"  Next  Monday  you  go  West." 

"  You  mean,  after  all,  I  'm  to  have  a  chance  ? 
I  'm  not  going  to  die  like  —  like  a  rat  ? " 

For  a  moment,  a  swiftly  passing  moment,  it 
was  the  old  vital  Steve  who  spoke;  the  Babcock 
of  a  year  ago ;  then,  in  quick  recession,  the  mood 
passed. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  're  talking  about, 

[2441 


JOURNEY'S   END 

girl.  I  can't  go,  I  tell  you.  I  haven't  the 
money." 

"  I  '11  see  that  you  have  the  money,  Steve." 

"You?" 

"  I  Ve  been  teaching  for  eight  years,  and  liv 
ing  at  home  all  the  while." 

The  man,  surprised  out  of  his  self  centred- 
ness,  looked  wonderingly,  unbelievingly,  at  her. 

"  You  never  told  me,  Mollie." 

"  No,  I  never  saw  the  need  before." 

The  man's  look  of  wonder  passed.  Another 
—  fearful,  dependent,  the  look  of  a  child  in  the 
dark  —  took  its  place. 

"But  —  alone,  Mollie!  A  strange  land,  a 
strange  people,  a  strange  tongue  !  Oh,  I  hate 
myself,  girl,  hate  myself  !  I  Ve  lost  my  nerve. 
I  can't  go  alone.  I  can't." 

"  You  're  not  going  alone,  Steve."  There  was 
a  triumphant  note  in  her  voice  that  thrilled  the 
man  through  and  through.  She  continued : 

"Only  this  morning  —  I  don't  know  why  I 
did  it;  it  seems  now  like  Providence  pointing 
the  way — I  read  in  the  paper  about  the  rich 
farm  lands  in  South  Dakota  that  are  open  for 
settlement.  I  thought  of  you  at  the  time, 

[245] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Steve;  how  such  a  life  might  restore  your 
health ;  but  it  seemed  so  impossible,  so  impracti 
cable,  that  I  soon  forgot  about  it. 

"But  —  Steve  —  we  can  each  take  up  a 
quarter-section — three  hundred  and  twenty 
acres,  altogether.  Think  of  it !  We  '11  soon  be 
rich.  There  you  will  have  just  the  sort  of  out 
door  life  the  doctor  says  you  need." 

He  looked  at  her,  marvelling. 

"Mollie — you  don't  mean  it — now,  when 
I'm  —  this  way  !"  He  arose,  his  breath  com 
ing  quick,  a  deep  blot  of  red  in  the  centre  of 
each  cheek.  "It  can't  be  true  when — when 
you'd  never  let  me  say  anything  before." 

"Yes,  Steve,  it's  true." 

She  was  so  calm,  so  self-possessed  and  withal 
so  determined,  that  the  man  was  incredulous. 

"  That  you  '11  marry  me  ?    Say  it,  Mollie  1 " 

"  Yes,  I  '11  marry  you." 

"  Mollie  ! "  He  took  a  step  forward,  then  of 
a  sudden,  abruptly  halted. 

"But  your  parents,"  in  swift  trepidation. 
"Mollie,  they— " 

"Don't    let's    speak   of   them,"  —  sharply. 

[246] 


JOURNEY'S   END 

Then  in  quick  contrition,  her  voice  softened; 
once  more  it  struck  the  maternal  note. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  'm  very  tired.  Come.  We 
have  a  spare  room;  you  mustn't  go  home  to 
night." 

The  man  stopped,  coughed,  advanced  a  step, 
then  stopped  again. 

" Mollie,  I  can't  than  you;  can't  ever  repay 
you—" 

"  You  mustn't  talk  of  repaying  me,"  she  said 
shyly,  her  dark  face  coloring.  It  was  the  first 
time  during  the  interview  that  she  had  shown  a 
trace  of  embarrassment. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  meeting  his  look  again,  her 
hand  on  the  door ;  "  it 's  getting  late.  You  must 
not  venture  out." 

A  moment  longer  the  man  hesitated,  then 
obeyed.  Not  until  he  was  very  near,  so  near 
that  he  could  touch  her,  did  a  vestige  of  his 
former  manhood  appear.  He  paused,  and  their 
eyes  were  locked  in  a  soul-searching  look.  Then 
all  at  once  his  arm  was  round  her  waist,  his  face 
beside  her  face. 

"  Mollie,  girl,  won't  you — just  once  ? " 

"  No,  no — not  that !  Don't  ask  it."  Passion- 

[247] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

ately  the  brown  hands  flew  to  the  brown  cheeks, 
covering  them  protectingly.  But  at  once  came 
thought,  the  spirit  of  sacrifice,  and  contrition 
for  the  involuntary  repulse. 

"Forgive  me,  Steve;  I'm  unaccountable  to 
night."  Her  voice,  her  manner  were  con 
strained,  subdued.  She  accepted  his  injured 
look  without  comment,  without  further  defence. 
She  saw  the  perplexed  look  on  his  thin  face; 
then  she  reached  forward — up  —  and  her  two 
soft  hands  brought  his  face  down  to  the  level  of 
her  own. 

Deliberately,  voluntarily,  she  kissed  him  fair 
upon  the  lips. 

II 

The  sun  was  just  peering  over  the  rim  of  the 
prairie,  when  Mrs.  Warren  turned  in  from  the 
dusty  road,  picked  her  way  among  the  brown 
ing  weeds  to  the  plain,  unpainted,  shanty-like 
structure  which  marked  the  presence  of  a  home 
steader.  Except  to  the  east,  where  stood  the 
tents  and  shacks  of  the  new  railroad's  construc 
tion  gang,  not  another  human  habitation  broke 
the  dull,  monotonous  rolling  sea  of  prairie. 

[248] 


JOURNEY'S   END 

Mrs.  Warren  pounded  vigorously  upon  the 
rough  boards  of  the  door. 

A  full  half -minute  she  waited;  then  she 
glared  petulantly  at  the  unresponsive  barrier, 
and  pounded  upon  it  again. 

Ordinarily  she  would  have  waited  patiently, 
for  the  multitude  of  duties  of  one  day  often 
found  Mrs.  Babcock  still  weary  with  the  dawn 
ing  of  the  next  —  especially  since  Steve  had 
allied  himself  with  Jack  Warren's  engineering 
corps. 

Funds  had  run  low,  and  the  two  valetudina 
rians  had  reached  the  stage  of  desperation  where 
they  were  driven  to  acknowledge  failure,  when 
Jack  Warren  happened  along,  in  the  van  of 
the  new  railroad. 

The  work  of  home-building,  from  the  raw 
material,  had  been  too  much  for  Steve's  en 
feebled  physique;  so  it  happened  that  Mollie 
performed  most  of  his  share,  as  well  as  all  of 
her  own.  Yet  Steve  toiled  to  the  limit  of  his 
endurance,  and  each  day,  at  sundown,  flung 
himself  upon  his  blanket,  spread  beneath  the 
stars,  dog-tired,  fairly  trembling  with  weari 
ness.  But  he  soon  developed  a  prodigious  appe- 

[249] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

tite,  and,  after  the  first  few  weeks,  slept  each 
night  like  a  dead  man,  until  sunrise. 

This  morning  Annie  Warren  was  too  full  of 
her  errand  to  pause  an  instant.  She  stood  a 
moment  listening,  one  ear  to  the  splintery, 
unfinished  boards,  then  — 

"  Mollie,"  she  ventured,  "  are  you  awake  ? " 

No  answer. 

"  Mollie  " — more  insistent,  "  wake  up  and  let 


me  in." 


Still  no  response. 

"  Mollie,"  for  the  third  time,  " it  is  I,  Annie; 
may  I  enter  ? " 

"  Come."    The  voice  was  barely  audible. 

Within  the  uncomfortably  low,  dim  room  the 
visitor  impetuously  crossed  the  earthen  floor 
half-way  to  a  rude  bunk  built  against  the  wall, 
then  paused,  her  round,  childlike  face  soberly 
lengthening. 

"  Mollie,  you  have  been  crying  ! "  she  charged, 
resentfully,  as  if  the  act  constituted  a  personal 
offence.  "  You  can't  deceive  me.  The  pillow  is 
soaked,  and  your  eyes  are  red."  She  came  for 
ward,  impulsively,  and  threw  herself  on  the  bed, 
her  arm  about  the  other. 

[2501 


JOURNEY'S   END 

"What  is  it?  Tell  me— your  friend  — 
Annie." 

Beneath  the  light  coverlet,  Mollie  Babcock 
made  a  motion  of  deprecation,  almost  of  repug 
nance. 

"It  is  nothing.  Please  don't  pay  any  at 
tention  to  me." 

"But  it  is  something.  Am  I  not  your 
friend?" 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  Annie  Warren 
all  at  once  became  conscious  that  the  other 
woman  was  looking  at  her  in  a  way  she  had 
never  done  before. 

"  Assuredly  you  are  my  friend,  Annie.  But 
just  the  same,  it's  nothing."  The  look  altered 
until  it  became  a  smile. 

"  Tell  me,  instead,  why  you  are  here,"  Mollie 
went  on.  "  It  is  not  usual  at  this  time  of  day." 

Annie  Warren  felt  the  rebuff,  and  she  was 
hurt. 

"  It  is  nothing."  The  visitor  was  on  her  feet, 
her  voice  again  resentful;  her  chin  was  held 
high,  while  her  long  lashes  drooped.  "  Pardon 
me  for  intruding,  for  —  " 

"Annie!" 

[251] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

No  answer  save  the  quiver  of  a  sensitive  red 

HP. 

"Annie,  child,  pardon  me.  I  wouldn't  for 
the  world  hurt  you;  but  it  is  so  hard,  what  you 
ask."  Mollie  Babcock  rose,  now,  likewise. 
"  However,  if  you  wish  —  " 

"  No,  no  1 "  The  storm  was  clearing.  "  It 
was  all  my  fault.  I  know  you  'd  rather  not." 
She  had  grasped  Mollie's  arms,  and  was  forc 
ing  her  backward,  toward  the  bunk,  gently, 
smilingly.  "  Be  still.  I  Ve  something  to  tell 
you.  Are  you  quite  ready  to  listen  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  'm  quite  ready." 

"You  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  it  is  ? 
You  couldn't  even  guess  ?" 

"  No,  I  could  n't  even  guess." 

"  I  '11  tell  you,  then."  The  plump  Annie  was 
bubbling  like  a  child  before  a  well-filled  Christ 
mas  stocking.  "It's  Jack:  he's  coming  this 
very  day.  A  big,  fierce  Indian  brought  the 
letter  this  morning."  She  sat  down  tailor  fash 
ion  on  the  end  of  the  bunk.  "  He  nearly  ate  up 
Susie — Jack  christened  her  Susie  because  she 's 
a  Sioux — because  she  wouldn't  let  him  put  the 

[2521 


JOURNEY'S   END 

letter  right  into  my  own  hand.  That 's  why  I  'm 
up  so  early." 

She  looked  slyly  at  the  woman  on  the  bed. 

"  Who  do  you  suppose  is  coming  with  him  ? " 
she  asked. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  in  a  tone  of  not 
caring,  either. 

"  Guess,  Mollie!" 

"Steve?" 

"  Of  course  —  Steve.  You  knew  all  the  time, 
only  you  wouldn't  admit  it.  Oh,  I  'm  so  glad  ! 
I  want  to  hug  some  one.  Is  n't  it  fine  ? " 

"  Yes,  fine  indeed.  But  you  don't  mean  that 
you  want  to  hug  Steve  ? " 

"No,  goose.  You  know  I  meant  Jack;  but 
I  —  "  She  regarded  her  friend  doubtfully. 
But  Mollie  Babcock  was  dressing  rapidly,  and 
her  face  was  averted. 

"And  Mollie,  I  didn't  tell  you  all  —  almost 
the  best.  We  're  going  home,  Jack  says ;  going 
right  away;  this  very  week,  maybe." 

For  a  moment  the  dressing  halted.  "  I  am 
very  glad  —  for  you,"  said  Mollie,  in  an  even 
voice. 

"  Glad,   for  me  ! "   mimickingly,   baitingly. 

[253] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Mollie  Babcock,  if  I  did  n't  know  you  better, 
I  'd  say  you  were  envious." 

Mollie  said  nothing. 

"  Or  were  n't  glad  your  husband  is  coming." 

Still  no  word. 

"Or— or— Mollie,  what  have  I  done?" 
Annie  cried  in  dismay.  "Don't  cry  so;  I  was 
only  joking.  Of  course  you  know  that  I  did  n't 
mean  that  you  envied  our  good  luck,  or  that 
you  wouldn't  be  crazy  to  see  Steve." 

"But  it's  so.    God  help  me,  it's  so!" 

"  Mollie  ! "  Mrs.  Warren  was  aghast.  "  For 
give  me  !  I  'm  ashamed  of  myself  ! " 

"There's  nothing  to  forgive;  it's  so." 

"Please  don't."  The  two  were  very  close, 
very  tense,  but  not  touching.  "-Don't  say  any 
more.  I  did  n't  hear  —  " 

"  You  did  hear.  And  you  suspected,  or  you 
wouldn't  have  suggested !" 

"Mollie,  I  never  dreamed.    I  —  " 

Of  a  sudden  the  older  woman  faced  about, 
Seizing  the  other  by  the  shoulders,  she  held  her 
prisoner.  She  fixed  the  frightened  woman's 
eyes  with  a  stern  look. 

[254] 


JOURNEY'S   END 

"  Will  you  swear  that  you  never  knew — that 
it  was  mere  chance  —  what  you  said  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  swear  you  didn't  ? " — the  grip  tight 
ened  —  "  you  swear  it  ? " 

"•I  swear — oh,  you  're  hurting  me  ! " 

Mollie  Babcock  let  her  hands  drop. 

"  I  believe  you  "  —  wearily.  "  It  seemed  that 
everybody  knew.  God  help  me  ! "  She  sank  to 
the  bed,  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  I  believe  I  'm 
going  mad  ! " 

"Mollie  —  Mollie  Babcock!  You  mustn't 
talk  so  —  you  mustn't !"  The  seconds  ticked 
away.  Save  for  the  quick  catch  of  suppressed 
sobs,  not  a  sound  was  heard  in  the  mean,  austere 
little  room;  not  an  echo  penetrated  from  the 
outside  world. 

Then  suddenly  the  brown  head  lifted  from 
the  pillow,  and  Mollie  faced  almost  fiercely 
about. 

"  You  think  I  am — am  mad  already."  Then, 
feverishly :  "  Don't  you  ? " 

Helpless  at  a  crisis,  Annie  Warren  could  only 
stand  silent,  the  pink,  childish  under-lip  held 
tight  between  her  teeth  to  prevent  a  quiver. 

[255] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Her  fingers  played  nervously  with  the  filmy 
lace  shawl  about  her  shoulders. 

Mollie  advanced  a  step.    "  Don't  you  ? " 

Annie  found  her  voice. 

"  No,  no,  no !  Oh,  Mollie,  no,  of  course 
not!  You  —  Mollie  —  "  Instinct  all  at  once 
came  to  her  rescue.  With  a  sudden  movement 
she  gathered  the  woman  in  her  arms,  her  tender 
heart  quivering  in  her  voice  and  glistening  in 
her  eyes.  "  Mollie,  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  so  ! 
I  love  you,  Mollie.  Tell  me  what  it  is  —  me  — 
your  friend,  Annie." 

Mollie's  lips  worked  without  speech,  and 
Annie  became  insistent. 

"  Tell  me,  Mollie.  Let  me  share  the  ache  at 
your  heart.  I  love  you  ! " 

Here  was  the  crushing  straw  to  one  very,  very 
heartsick  and  very  weary.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  solitary  life,  Mollie  Babcock  threw  reti 
cence  to  the  winds,  and  admitted  another  human 
being  into  the  secret  places  of  her  confidence. 

"If  you  don't  think  me  already  mad,  you  will 
before  I  'm  through."  Like  a  caged  wild  thing 
that  can  not  be  still,  she  was  once  more  on  her 
feet,  vibrating  back  and  forth  like  a  shuttle. 

F2561 


JOURNEY'S   END 

"I  'm  afraid  of  myself  at  times,  afraid  of  the 
future.  It's  like  the  garret  used  to  be  after 
dark,  when  we  were  children:  it  holds  only 
horrors. 

"  Child,  child  ! "  She  paused,  her  arms 
folded  across  her  breast,  her  throat  a-throb. 
"You  can't  understand — thank  God,  you 
never  will  understand  —  what  the  future  holds 
for  me.  You  are  going  back  home ;  back  to  your 
own  people,  your  own  life.  You  've  been  here 
but  a  few  months.  To  you  it  has  been  a  lark, 
an  outing,  an  experience.  In  a  few  short  weeks 
it  will  be  but  a  memory,  stowed  away  in  its  own 
niche,  the  pleasant  features  alone  remaining 
vivid. 

"  Even,  while  here,  you  Ve  never  known  the 
life  itself.  You  've  had  Jack,  the  novelty  of  a 
strange  environment,  your  anticipation  of  sure 
release.  You  are  merely  like  a  sightseer,  locked 
for  a  minute  in  a  prison-cell,  for  the  sake  of  a 
new  sensation. 

"  You  can't  understand,  I  say.    You  are  this, 
and  I  —  I  am  the  life-prisoner  in  the  cell  be 
yond,  peering  at  you  through  the  bars,  viewing 
you  and  your  mock  imprisonment." 
[257] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Once  more  the  speaker  was  in  motion,  to  and 
fro,  to  and  fro,  in  the  shuttle-trail.  "  The  chief 
difference  is,  that  the  life-prisoner  has  a  hope 
of  pardon ;  I  have  none  —  absolutely  none." 

"  Mollie  "  —  pleadingly,  "  you  must  n't.  I  '11 
ask  Jack  to  give  Steve  a  place  at  home,  and  you 
can  go — " 

"  Go  I"  The  bitterness  of  her  heart  welled 
up  and  vibrated  in  the  word.  "  Go  !  We  can't 
go,  now  or  ever.  It's  death  to  Steve  if  we 
leave.  I  've  got  to  stay  here,  month  after  month, 
year  after  year,  dragging  my  life  out  until  I 
grow  gray-haired — until  I  die  !"  She  halted, 
her  arms  tensely  folded,  her  breath  coming 
quick.  Only  the  intensity  of  her  emotion  saved 
the  attitude  from  being  histrionic.  In  a  sudden 
outburst,  she  fiercely  apostrophized : 

"Oh,  Dakota  !  I  hate  you,  I  hate  you  !  Be 
cause  I  am  a  woman,  I  hate  you  !  Because  I 
would  live  in  a  house,  and  not  in  this  endless 
dreary  waste  of  a  dead  world,  I  hate  you  !  Be 
cause  your  very  emptiness  and  solitude  are  worse 
than  a  prison,  because  the  calls  of  the  living 
things  that  creep  and  fly  over  your  endless 
bosom  are  more  mournful  than  death  itself,  I 

[258] 


JOURNEY'S  END 

hate  you  !  Because  I  would  be  free,  because  I 
respect  sex,  because  of  the  disdain  for  woman 
hood  that  dwells  in  your  crushing  silence,  I 
hate  —  oh,  my  God,  how  I  hate  you  1 "  She 
threw  her  arms  wide,  in  a  frantic  gesture  of 
rebellion. 

"I  want  but  this,"  she  cried  passionately: 
"to  be  free;  free,  as  I  was  at  home,  in  God's 
country.  And  I  can  never  be  so  here  —  never, 
never,  never!  Oh,  Annie,  I'm  homesick — 
desperately,  miserably  homesick !  I  wish  to 
Heaven  I  were  dead  ! " 

Annie  Warren,  child- woman  that  she  was, 
was  helpless,  when  face  to  face  with  the  un 
usual.  Her  senses  were  numbed,  paralyzed. 
One  thought  alone  suggested  itself. 

"But"— haltingly  — "for  Steve's  sake  — 
certainly,  for  him — " 

"  Stop  !  As  you  love  me,  stop  ! "  Again  no 
suggestion  of  the  histrionic  in  the  passionate 
voice.  "Don't  say  that  now.  I  can't  stand  it. 
I  —  oh,  I  don't  mean  that !  Forget  that  I  said 
it.  I  'm  not  responsible  this  morning.  Please 
leave  me." 

[259] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

She  was  prostrate  on  the  bed  at  last,  her  whole 
body  a-tremble. 
"But  —  Mollie  —  " 
"  Go — go  I "  cried  Mollie,  wildly.    "  Please 

go!" 

Awed  to  silence,  Annie  Warren  stared  help 
lessly  a  moment,  then  gathered  her  shawl  about 
her  shoulders,  and  slipped  silently  away. 

Ill 

Mollie  Babcock  was  listlessly  going  about 
some  imperative  domestic  task,  behind  the  mean 
structure  which  represented  home  for  her,  when 
Steve  came  upon  her. 

She  was  not  looking  for  him.  He  had  been 
gone  so  long,  out  there  somewhere,  in  that  abom 
ination  of  desolation,  building  a  railroad,  that 
the  morbid  fancy  had  come  to  dwell  with  her 
that  the  prairie  had  swallowed  him,  and  that 
she  would  never  see  him  more.  So  he  came  upon 
her  unawares. 

The  buffalo  grass  rustled  with  the  passage  of 
her  skirts.  His  eyes  lighted,  the  man  seemed 
to  grow  in  stature — six  feet  of  sun-blessed, 
primitive  health.  Now  was  the  time  — 

[260] 


JOURNEY'S   END 

"Mollie!" 

There  was  a  sudden  gasp  from  the  woman. 
With  a  hand  to  her  throat,  she  wheeled  swiftly 
round,  confronting  him. 

•"I'm  back  at  last.  Aren't  you  glad  to  see 
me?" 

She  was  as  pallid  as  an  Easter-lily;  pallid, 
despite  the  fact  that  she  had  decided,  and  had 
nerved  herself  for  his  coming. 

Steve  was  puzzled.  "Mollie,  girl"  —  he  did 
not  advance,  merely  stood  as  he  was  —  "aren't 
you  glad  to  see  me?  Won't  you  —  come?" 

There  was  a  long  space  of  silence ;  the  woman 
did  not  stir.  Then  a  strange,  inarticulate  cry 
was  smothered  in  her  throat.  Swiftly,  all  but 
desperately,  she  stumbled  blindly  forward,  al 
though  her  eyes  were  shining  with  the  enchant 
ment  of  his  presence;  close  to  him  she  came, 
flung  her  arms  around  his  broad  chest,  and 
strained  him  to  her  with  the  abandon  of  a  wild 
creature. 

"  Steve  ! "  tensely,  "  how  could  you  ?  Glad  ? 
You  know  I'm  glad — oh,  so  glad!  You 
startled  me,  that  was  all." 

"Mollie,   girlie"— he   lifted   her  at   arms' 

[261] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

length,  joying  in  this  testimony  of  his  renewed 
strength  and  manhood — "I  rode  all  last  night 
to  get  here — to  see  you.  Are  you  happy,  girlie, 
happy  ? " 

"Yes,  Steve" — her  voice  was  chastened  to 
a  murmur — "  I  —  I  'm  very  happy." 

"  That  completes  my  happiness."  Drawing 
her  tenderly  to  him,  he  kissed  her  again  and 
again  —  hungrily,  passionately ;  then,  abruptly, 
he  fell  to  scrutinizing  her,  with  a  meaning  that 
she  was  quick  to  interpret. 

"Isn't  there  something  you've  forgotten, 
Mollie?" 

"  No,  I  Ve  not  forgotten,  Steve."  She  drew 
the  bearded  face  down  to  her  own.  Had  Steve 
been  observant  he  would  have  noticed  that  the 
lips  so  near  his  own  were  trembling;  but  he  was 
not  observant,  this  Steve  Babcock.  Once,  twice 
and  again  she  kissed  him. 

"I  think  I'll  never  forget,  Steve,  man  — 
never ! "  With  one  hand  she  indicated  the 
prairie  that  billowed  away  to  the  skyline.  "  This 
is  our  home,  and  I  love  it  because  it  is  ours.  I 
shall  always  have  you — I  know  now,  Steve. 

[262] 


JOURNEY'S   END 

And  I  'm  the  happiest,  most  contented 
in  all  the  wide  world." 

She  drew  away  with  a  sudden  movement,  her 
face  aglow  with  love  and  happiness.  She  was 
pulling  at  his  arm  with  all  her  might. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  he  asked,  surprised. 

"Over  to  the  camp — to  Journey's  End.  I 
must  tell  Annie  Warren  just  as  soon  as  ever 
I  can  find  her." 


1265} 


A  PRAIRIE  IDYL 

A  BEAUTIFUL  moonlight  night  early 
^L"\  in  September,  the  kind  of  night  one  re 
members  for  years,  when  the  air  is  not  too 
cold  to  be  pleasant,  and  yet  has  a  suggestion  of 
the  frost  that  is  to  come.  A  kind  of  air  that 
makes  one  think  thoughts  which  cannot  be  put 
into  words,  that  calls  up  sensations  one  cannot 
describe;  an  air  which  breeds  restless  energy; 
an  air  through  which  Mother  Nature  seems  to 
speak,  saying — "Hasten,  children;  life  is 
short  and  you  have  much  to  do." 

It  was  nearing  ten  o'clock,  and  a  full  moon 
lit  up  the  rolling  prairie  country  of  South  Da 
kota  for  miles,  when  the  first  team  of  a  little 
train  of  six  moved  slowly  out  of  the  dark 
shadow  blots  thrown  by  the  trees  at  the  edge  of 
the  Big  Sioux,  advancing  along  a  dim  trail 
towards  the  main  road.  From  the  first  wagon 
sounded  the  suggestive  rattle  of  tin  cooking- 
utensils,  and  the  clatter  of  covers  on  an  old 

[265] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

cook  stove.  Next  behind  was  a  load  piled  high 
with  a  compound  heap  of  tents,  tennis  nets,  old 
carpets,  hammocks,  and  the  manifold  unclassi 
fied  paraphernalia  which  twenty  young  people 
will  collect  for  a  three  weeks'  outing. 

These  wagons  told  their  own  story.  "  Camp 
Eden,"  the  fanciful  name  given  to  the  quiet, 
shady  spot  where  the  low  chain  of  hills  met  the 
river ;  the  spot  where  the  very  waters  seemed  to 
lose  themselves  in  their  own  cool  depths,  and 
depart  sighing  through  the  shallows  beyond, — 
Camp  Eden  was  deserted,  and  a  score  of  very 
tired  campers  were  reluctantly  returning  to 
home  and  work. 

Last  in  the  line  and  steadily  losing  ground, 
came  a  single  trap  carrying  two  people.  One 
of  them,  a  young  man  with  the  face  of  a 
dreamer,  was  speaking.  The  spell  of  the  night 
was  upon  him. 

"  So  this  is  the  last  of  our  good  time  —  and 
now  for  work."  He  stopped  the  horse  and 
stood  up  in  the  wagon.  "  Good-bye,  little  Camp 
Eden.  Though  I  won't  be  here,  yet  whenever 
I  see  the  moon  a-shining  so — and  the  air  feel 
ing  frosty  and  warm  and  restless  —  and  the  corn 

[266] 


A  PRAIRIE   IDYL 

stalks  whitening,  and  the  young  prairie  chick 
ens  calling — you'll  come  back  to  me,  and  I'll 
think  of  you — and  of  the  Big  Sioux  —  and  of 
—  "  His  eyes  dropped  to  a  smooth  brown  head, 
every  coil  of  the  walnut  hair  glistening. 

It  made  him  think  of  the  many  boat  rides 
they  two  had  taken  together  in  the  past  two 
weeks,  when  he  had  watched  the  moonlight 
shimmering  on  rippling,  running  water,  and 
compared  the  play  of  light  upon  it  and  upon 
that  same  brown  head — and  had  forgotten  all 
else  in  the  comparison.  He  forgot  all  else  now. 
He  sat  down,  and  the  horse  started.  The  noisy 
wagons  ahead  had  passed  out  of  hearing.  The 
pair  were  alone. 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  looking  sideways  at 
the  girl.  The  moonlight  fell  full  upon  her  face, 
drawing  clear  the  line  of  cheek  and  chin;  bring 
ing  out  the  curve  of  the  drooping  mouth  and  the 
shadow  from  the  long  lashes.  She  seemed  to 
the  sensitive  lad  more  than  human.  He  had 
loved  her  for  years,  with  the  pure  silent  love 
known  only  to  such  a  nature  as  his  —  and  never 
had  he  loved  her  so  wildly  as  now. 

He  was  the  sport  of  a  multitude  of  passions ; 

[267] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

love  and  ambition  were  the  strongest,  and  they 
were  fighting  a  death  struggle  with  each  other. 
How  could  he  leave  her  for  years  —  perhaps, 
never  see  her  again  —  and  yet  how  could  he 
ask  her  to  be  the  wife  of  such  as  he  was  now — 
a  mere  laborer  ?  And  again,  his  college  course, 
his  cherished  ambition  for  years — how  could  he 
give  it  up;  and  yet  he  felt  —  he  knew  she  loved 
him,  and  trusted  him. 

He  had  been  looking  squarely  at  her.  She 
turned,  and  their  eyes  met.  Each  knew  the 
thought  of  the  other,  and  each  turned  away. 
He  hesitated  no  longer;  he  would  tell  her  all, 
and  she  should  judge.  His  voice  trembled  a 
little  as  he  said:  "  I  want  to  tell  you  a  story, 
and  ask  you  a  question  —  may  I  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  then  answered 
with  a  smile :  "  I  'm  always  glad  to  hear  stories 
—  and  at  the  worst  one  can  always  decline  to 
answer  questions." 

He  looked  out  over  the  prairie,  and  saw  the 
lights  of  the  little  town  —  her  home  —  in  the 
distance. 

"It  isn't  a  short  story,  and  I  have  only  so 
long  "  —  he  pointed  along  the  road  ahead  to  the 

[268] 


A   PRAIRIE    IDYL 

viUage  beyond— "to  tell  it  in."  He  settled 
back  in  the  seat,  and  began  speaking.  His 
voice  was  low  and  soft,  like  the  prairie  night- 
wind. 

"Part  of  the  story  you  know;  part  of  it  I 
think  you  have  guessed;  a  little  of  it  will  be 
new.  For  the  sake  of  that  little,  I  will  tell 
all." 

"  Thirteen  years  ago,  what  is  now  a  little 
prairie  town  —  then  a  very  little  town  indeed 
—  gained  a  new  citizen  —  a  boy  of  nine.  A 
party  of  farmers  found  him  one  day,  sleeping 
in  a  pile  of  hay,  in  the  market  corner.  He  lay 
so  they  could  see  how  his  face  was  bruised  — 
and  how,  though  asleep,  he  tossed  in  pain.  He 
awoke,  and,  getting  up,  walked  with  a  limp. 
Where  he  came  from  no  one  knew,  and  he  would 
not  tell;  but  his  appearance  told  its  own  story. 
He  had  run  away  from  somewhere.  What  had 
happened  they  could  easily  imagine. 

"  It  was  harvest-time  and  boys,  even  though 
minus  a  pedigree,  were  in  demand;  so  he  was 
promptly  put  on  a  farm.  Though  only  a  child, 
he  had  no  one  to  care  for  him — and  he  was 
made  to  work  ceaselessly. 

[269] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Years  passed  and  brought  a  marked  change 
in  the  boy.  How  he  lived  was  a  marvel.  It  was 
a  country  of  large  families,  and  no  one  cared 
to  adopt  him.  Summers,  he  would  work  for  his 
board  and  clothes,  and  in  winter,  by  the  irony 
of  Nature,  for  his  board  only ;  yet,  perhaps  be 
cause  it  was  the  warmest  place  he  knew,  he 
managed  to  attend  district  school. 

"  When  a  lad  of  fifteen  he  began  to  receive 
wages  —  and  life's  horizon  seemed  to  change. 
He  dressed  neatly,  and  in  winter  came  to 
school  in  the  little  prairie  town.  He  was  put  in 
the  lower  grades  with  boys  of  ten,  and  even 
here  his  blunders  made  him  a  laughing-stock; 
but  not  for  long,  for  he  worked — worked  al 
ways —  and  next  year  was  put  in  the  high 
school. 

"There  he  established  a  precedent — doing 
four  years'  work  in  two  —  and  graduated  at 
eighteen.  How  he  did  it  no  one  but  he  himself 
knew  —  studying  Sundays,  holidays,  and  even 
ings,  when  he  was  so  tired  that  he  had  to  walk 
the  floor  to  keep  awake — but  he  did  it." 

The  speaker  stopped  a  moment  to  look  at 
[270] 


A  PRAIRIE   IDYL 

his  companion.  "  Is  this  a  bore  ?  Somehow  I 
can't  help  talking  to-night." 

"  No,  please  go  on,"  said  the  girl  quickly. 

"Well,  the  boy  graduated — but  not  alone. 
For  two  years  he  had  worked  side  by  side  with 
a  brown-haired,  brown-eyed  girl.  From  the 
time  he  had  first  seen  her  she  was  his  ideal — his 
divinity.  And  she  had  never  spoken  with  him 
five  minutes  in  her  life.  After  graduation,  the 
girl  went  away  to  a  big  university.  Her  par 
ents  were  wealthy,  and  her  every  wish  was 
gratified." 

Again  the  speaker  hesitated.  When  he  went 
on  his  face  was  hard,  his  voice  bitter. 

"And  the  boy — he  was  poor  and  he  went 
back  to  the  farm.  He  was  the  best  hand  in  the 
country;  for  the  work  he  received  good  wages. 
If  he  had  worked  hard  before,  he  worked  now 
like  a  demon.  He  thought  of  the  girl  away  at 
college,  and  tried  at  first  to  crowd  her  from  his 
memory — but  in  vain.  Then  he  worked  in 
self-defence  —  and  to  forget. 

"He  saw  years  slipping  by — and  himself 
still  a  farmhand.  The  thought  maddened  him, 
[271] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

because  he  knew  he  was  worthy  of  something 
better. 

"  Gradually,  his  whole  life  centred  upon  one 
ob j  ect — to  save  money  for  college.  Other  boys 
called  him  close  and  cold ;  but  he  did  not  care. 
He  seldom  went  anywhere,  so  intent  was  he 
upon  his  one  object.  On  hot  summer  nights, 
tired  and  drowsy  he  would  read  until  Nature  re 
belled,  and  he  would  fall  asleep  to  dream  of  a 
girl — a  girl  with  brown  eyes  that  made  one  for 
get  —  everything.  In  winter,  he  had  more  time 

—  and  the  little  lamp  in  his  room  became  a  sort 
of  landmark:  it  burned  for  hours  after  every 
other  light  in  the  valley  had  ceased  shining. 

"  Four  years  passed,  and  at  last  the  boy  had 
won.  In  a  month  he  would  pass  from  the 
prairie  to  university  life.  He  had  no  home,  few 
friends  —  who  spoke;  those  who  did  not  were 
safely  packed  at  the  bottom  of  his  trunk.  His 
going  from  the  little  town  would  excite  no  more 
comment  than  had  his  coming.  He  was  all 
ready,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  set  apart 
a  month — the  last  —  as  a  vacation.  He 
felt  positively  gay.  He  had  fought  a  hard  fight 

—  and  had  won.     He  saw  the  dawning  of  a 

[272] 


A  PRAIRIE   IDYL 

great  light  —  saw  the  future  as  a  battle-ground 
where  he  would  fight;  not  as  he  was  then,  but 
fully  equipped  for  the  struggle.  .  .  .  But 
no  matter  what  air-castles  he  built;  they  were 
such  as  young  men  will  build  to  the  end  of 
time." 

The  speaker's  voice  lowered — stopped.  He 
looked  straight  out  over  the  prairie,  his  eyes 
glistening. 

"  If  so  far  the  boy's  life  had  been  an  inferno, 
he  was  to  be  repaid.  The  girl — she  of  the 
brown  eyes  —  was  home  once  more,  and  they 
met  again  as  members  of  a  camping  party." 
He  half -turned  in  his  seat  to  look  at  her,  but 
she  sat  with  face  averted,  so  quiet,  so  motion 
less,  that  he  wondered  if  she  heard. 

"  Are  you  listening  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Listening  ! "  Her  voice  carried  conviction, 
so  the  lad  continued. 

"For  a  fortnight  he  lived  a  dream — and 
that  dream  was  Paradise.  He  forgot  the  past, 
ignored  the  future,  and  lived  solely  for  the 
moment  —  with  the  joy  of  Nature's  own  child. 
It  was  the  pure  love  of  the  idealist  and  the 
dreamer — it  was  divine. 

[273] 


x       A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Then  came  the  reaction.  One  day  he  awoke 
—  saw  things  as  they  were — saw  again  the 
satire  of  Fate.  At  the  very  time  he  left  for  col 
lege,  she  returned  —  a  graduate.  She  was 
young,  beautiful,  accomplished.  He  was  a 
mere  farmhand,  without  money  or  education, 
homeless,  obscure.  The  thought  was  madden 
ing,  and  one  day  he  suddenly  disappeared  from 
camp.  He  did  n't  say  good-bye  to  any  one ;  he 
felt  he  had  no  apology  that  he  could  offer.  But 
he  had  to  go,  for  he  felt  the  necessity  for  work, 
longed  for  it,  as  a  drunkard  longs  for  liquor." 

"Oh!"  The  exclamation  came  from  the 
lips  of  the  girl  beside  him.  "I  —  we  —  all 
wondered  why — ." 

"  Well,  that  was  why. 

"  He  fell  in  with  a  threshing-crew,  and  asked 
to  work  for  his  board.  They  thought  him  queer, 
but  accepted  his  offer.  For  two  days  he  stayed 
with  them,  doing  the  work  of  two  men.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  couldn't  do  enough — he 
couldn't  become  tired.  He  wanted  to  think  it 
all  out,  and  he  couldn't  with  the  fever  in  his 
blood. 

"At  night  he  couldn't  sleep  —  Nature  was 

[274] 


A  PRAIRIE   IDYL 

pitiless.  He  would  walk  the  road  for  miles 
until  morning. 

"  With  the  third  day  came  relief.  All  at  once 
he  felt  fearfully  tired,  and  fell  asleep  where  he 
stood.  Several  of  the  crew  carried  him  to  a 
darkened  room,  and  there  he  slept  as  a  dumb 
animal  sleeps.  When  he  awoke,  he  was  himself 
again ;  his  mind  was  clear  and  cool.  He  looked 
the  future  squarely  in  the  face,  now,  and 
clearly,  as  if  a  finger  pointed,  he  saw  the  path 
that  was  marked  for  him.  He  must  go  his  way 
—  and  she  must  go  hers.  Perhaps,  after  four 
years  or  more — but  the  future  was  God's." 

The  boy  paused.  The  lights  of  the  town 
were  nearing,  now;  but  he  still  looked  out  over 
the  moon-kissed  prairie. 

"  The  rest  you  know.  The  dreamer  returned. 
The  party  scarcely  knew  him,  for  he  seemed 
years  older.  There  were  but  a  few  days  more 
of  camp  life,  and  he  spent  most  of  the  time  with 
the  girl.  Like  a  malefactor  out  on  bail,  he  was 
painting  a  picture  for  the  future.  He  thought 
he  had  conquered  himself  —  but  he  hadn't.  It 
was  the  same  old  struggle.  Was  not  love  more 
than  ambition  or  wealth  ?  Had  he  not  earned 

[275] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

the  right  to  speak  ?  But  something  held  him 
back.  If  justice  to  himself,  was  it  justice  to  the 
girl  ?  Conscience  said  '  No.'  It  was  hard  —  no 
one  knows  how  hard  —  but  he  said  nothing." 

Once  more  he  turned  to  his  companion,  in  his 
voice  the  tenderness  of  a  life-long  passion. 

"This  is  the  story:  did  the  boy  do  right?" 
A  life's  work  —  greater  than  a  life  itself,  hung 
on  the  answer  to  that  question. 

The  girl  understood  it  all.  She  had  always 
known  that  she  liked  him;  but  now  —  now  — 
As  he  had  told  his  story,  she  had  felt,  first,  pity, 
and  then  something  else;  something  incompa 
rably  sweeter;  something  that  made  her  heart 
beat  wildly,  that  seemed  almost  to  choke  her 
with  its  ecstasy. 

He  loved  her — had  loved  her  all  these  years  ! 
He  belonged  to  her  —  and  his  future  lay  in  her 
hands. 

His  future  !  The  thought  fell  upon  her  new 
found  happiness  with  the  suddenness  of  a  blow. 
She  could  keep  him,  but  had  she  the  right  to  do 
so  ?  She  saw  in  him  something  that  he  did  not 
suspect  —  and  that  something  was  genius.  She 
knew  he  had  the  ability  to  make  for  himself  a 
[276] 


A  PRAIRIE   IDYL 

name  that  would  stand  among  the  great  names 
of  the  earth. 

Then,  did  his  life  really  belong  to  her  ?  Did 
it  not  rather  belong  to  himself  and  to  the  world  ? 

She  experienced  a  struggle,  fierce  as  he  him 
self  had  fought.  And  the  boy  sat  silent,  tense, 
waiting  for  her  answer. 

Yes,  she  must  give  him  up;  she  would  be 
brave.  She  started  to  speak,  but  the  words 
would  not  come.  Suddenly  she  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands,  while  the  glistening  brown  head 
trembled  with  her  sobs. 

It  was  the  last  drop  to  the  cup  over-flowing. 
A  second,  and  then,  his  arms  were  around  her. 
The  touch  was  electrifying  —  it  was  oblivion  — 
it  was  heaven  —  it  was — but  only  a  young  lover 
knows  what. 

"  You  have  answered,"  said  the  boy.  "  God 
forgive  me  —  but  I  can't  go  away  now." 

Thus  Fate  sported  with  two  lives. 


[277] 


THE    MADNESS  OF 
WHISTLING  WINGS 

CHAPTER  I  —  SANDFORD  THE  EXEMPLARY 

ORDINARILY  Sandford  is  sane— un 
deniably  so.  Barring  the  seventh,  upon 
any  other  day  of  the  week,  fifty-one  weeks  in 
the  year,  from  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  until 
six  at  night  —  omitting  again  a  scant  half -hour 
at  noon  for  lunch — he  may  be  found  in  his 
tight  little  box  of  an  office  on  the  fifth  floor  of 
the  Exchange  Building,  at  the  corner  of  Main 
Avenue  and  Thirteenth  Street,  where  the  ele 
vated  makes  its  loop. 

No  dog  chained  beside  his  kennel  is  more 
invariably  present,  no  caged  songster  more  in- 
contestably  anchored.  If  you  need  his  services, 
you  have  but  to  seek  his  address  between  the 
hours  mentioned.  You  may  do  so  with  the 
same  assurance  of  finding  him  on  duty  that  you 
would  feel,  if  you  left  a  jug  of  water  out  of 

[279] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

doors  over  night  in  a  blizzard,  that  the  jug,  as 
a  jug,  would  be  no  longer  of  value  in  the  morn 
ing.  He  was,  and  is,  routine  impersonate,  ex 
ponent  of  sound  business  personified;  a  living 
sermon  against  sloth  and  improvidence,  and 
easy  derelictions  of  the  flesh. 

That  is  to  say,  he  is  such  fifty-one  weeks  out 
of  the  fifty-two.  All  through  the  frigid  winter 
season,  despite  the  lure  of  California  limiteds  or 
Havana  liners,  he  holds  hard  in  that  den  of  his, 
with  its  floor  and  walls  of  sanitary  tiling  and 
its  ceiling  of  white  enamel,  and  hews  —  or 
grinds  rather,  for  Sandford  is  a  dental  surgeon 

—  close  to  the  line. 

All  through  the  heat  of  summer,  doggedly 
superior  to  the  call  of  Colorado  or  the  Adiron- 
dacks  or  the  Thousand  Islands,  he  comes  and 
departs  by  the  tick  of  the  clock.  Base-ball 
fans  find  him  adamant;  turf  devotees,  marble; 
golf  enthusiasts,  cold  as  the  tiles  beneath  his 
feet. 

Even  in  early  June,  when  Dalton,  whose 
suburban  home  is  next  door,  returns,  tanned 
and  clear-eyed  from  a  week-end  at  the  lake 

—  there  is  but  one  lake  to  Dalton  —  and  calls 

[280] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

him  mysteriously  back  to  the  rear  of  the  house, 
where,  with  a  flourish,  the  cover  is  removed 
from  a  box  the  expressman  has  just  delivered, 
to  disclose  a  shining  five-pound  bass  reposing 
upon  its  bed  of  packed  ice  —  even  then,  hands 
in  pockets,  Sandford  merely  surveys  and  ex 
presses  polite  congratulation.  Certainly  it 
is  a  fine  fish,  a  noble  fish,  even;  but  for  the  sake 
of  one  like  it  —  or,  yes,  granted  a  dozen  such  — 
to  leave  the  office,  the  sanitary-tiled  office,  de 
serted  for  four  whole  days  (especially  when  Dr. 
Corliss  on  the  floor  below  is  watching  like  a 
hawk)  — such  a  crazy  proceeding  is  not  to  be 
thought  of. 

Certainly  he  will  not  go  along  the  next  week 
end  —  or  the  next,  either.  The  suggestion 
simply  is  unthinkable.  Such  digressions  may  be 
all  right  for  the  leisure  class  or  for  invalids; 
but  for  adults,  live  ones,  strong  and  playing  the 
game  ?  A  shrug  and  a  tolerant  smile  end  the 
discussion,  as,  hands  still  in  his  pockets,  an 
after-dinner  cigar  firm  between  his  teeth,  Sand- 
ford  saunters  back  across  the  dozen  feet  of  sod 
separating  his  own  domicile  from  that  of  his 
fallen  and  misguided  neighbor. 

[281] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Dalton  's  got  the  fever  again,  bad,"  he  com 
ments  to  the  little  woman  upon  his  own  domain, 
whom  he  calls  "Polly,"  or  "Mrs.  Sandford," 
as  occasion  dictates.  She  has  been  watching  the 
preceding  incident  with  inscrutable  eyes. 

"  Yes  ? "  Polly  acknowledges,  with  the  air 
of  barkening  to  a  familiar  harangue  while  cast 
ing  ahead,  in  anticipation  of  what  was  to  come 
next. 

"  Curious  about  Dalton;  peculiar  twist  to  his 
mental  machinery  somewhere."  Sandford 
blows  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  eyes  it  meditatively. 
"  Leaving  business  that  way,  chopping  it  all  to 
pieces  in  fact;  and  just  for  a  fish  !  Curious  !  " 

"Harry's  got  something  back  there  that'll 
probably  interest  you,"  he  calls  out  to  me  as  I 
chug  by  in  my  last  year's  motor;  "  better  stop 
and  see." 

"Yes,"  I  acknowledge  simply;  and  though 
Polly's  eyes  and  mine  meet  we  never  smile,  or 
twitch  an  eyelid,  or  turn  a  hair;  for  Sandford 
is  observing  —  and  this  is  only  June. 

So  much  for  Dr.  Jekyll  Sandford,  the  Sand- 
ford  of  fifty-one  weeks  in  the  year. 

Then,  as  inevitably  as  time  rolls  by,  comes 

[282] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

that  final  week;  period  of  mania,  of  abandon; 
and  in  the  mere  sorcerous  passage  of  a  pair  of 
whirring  wings,  Dr.  Jekyll,  the  exemplary,  is 
no  more.  In  his  place,  wearing  his  shoes,  au 
daciously  signing  his  name  even  to  checks,  is 
that  other  being,  Hyde:  one  absolutely  the  re 
verse  of  the  reputable  Jekyll;  repudiating  with 
scorn  that  gentleman's  engagements;  with 
brazen  effrontery  denying  him  utterly,  and  all 
the  sane  conventionality  for  which  the  name  has 
become  a  synonyme. 

Worst  of  all,  rank  blasphemy,  he  not  only  re 
fuses  to  set  foot  in  that  modern  sanitary  office 
of  enamel  and  tiling,  at  the  corner  of  Thir 
teenth  and  Main,  below  which,  by  day  and  by 
night,  the  "  L "  trains  go  thundering,  but 
deliberately  holds  it  up  to  ridicule  and  derision 
and  insult. 


[£85] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  II  —  THE  PRESAGE  OF  THE  WINGS 

AND  I,  the  observer — worse,  the  accessory 
— know,  in  advance,  when  the  metamor 
phosis  will  transpire. 

When,  on  my  desk-pad  calendar  the  month 
recorded  is  October,  and  the  day  begins  with  a 
twenty,  there  comes  the  first  premonition  of 
winter;  not  the  reality,  but  a  premonition; 
when,  at  noon  the  sun  is  burning  hot,  and,  in  the 
morning,  frost  glistens  on  the  pavements ;  when 
the  leaves  are  falling  steadily  in  the  parks,  and 
not  a  bird  save  the  ubiquitous  sparrow  is  seen, 
I  begin  to  suspect. 

But  when  at  last,  of  an  afternoon,  the  wind 
switches  with  a  great  flurry  from  south  to 
dead  north,  and  on  the  flag-pole  atop  of  the 
government  building  there  goes  up  this  signal: 
|33  ;  and  when  later,  just  before  retiring,  I  sur 
reptitiously  slip  out  of  doors,  and,  listening 
breathlessly,  hear  after  a  moment  despite  the 
clatter  of  the  wind,  high  up  in  the  darkness 

[284] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

overhead  that  muffled  honk  I  honk  !  honk  !  of 
the  Canada-goose  winging  on  its  southern 
journey  in  advance  of  the  coming  storm  —  then 
I  know. 

So  well  do  I  know,  that  I  do  not  retire  —  not 
just  yet.  Instead,  on  a  pretext,  any  pretext,  I 
knock  out  the  ashes  from  my  old  pipe,  fill  it 
afresh,  and  wait.  I  wait  patiently,  because,  in 
evitable  as  Fate,  inevitable  as  that  call  from  out 
the  dark  void  of  the  sky,  I  know  there  will  come 
a  trill  of  the  telephone  on  the  desk  at  my  elbow; 
my  own  Polly  —  whose  name  happens  to  be 
Mary  —  is  watching  as  I  take  down  the  receiver 
to  reply. 


'[285] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  III  —  THE  OTHER  MAN 

IT  is  useless  to  dissimulate  longer,  then.  I 
am  discovered,  and  I  know  I  am  discovered. 
"  Hello,  Sandford,"  I  greet  without  preface. 

"  Sandford  !  "  (I  am  repeating  in  whispers 
what  he  says  for  my  Polly's  benefit.)  "  Sand- 
ford  !  How  the  deuce  did  you  know  ?  " 

"Know?"  With  the  Hyde-like  change 
comes  another,  and  I  feel  positively  facetious. 
"c  Why  I  know  your  ring  of  course,  the  same  as 
I  know  your  handwriting  on  a  telegram.  What 
is  it  ?  I  'm  busy." 

"  I  'm  busy,  too.  Don't  swell  up."  (Imagine 
"  swell  up  "  from  Sandford,  the  repressed  and 
decorous  !  )  "  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that 
the  honkers  are  coming." 

"  No  !  You  're  imagining,  or  you  dreamed 
it !  .  .  .  .  Anyway,  what  of  it  ?  I  tell 
you  I  'm  busy." 

"  Cut  it  out  ! "  I  'm  almost  scared  myself, 
the  voice  is  positively  ferocious.  "  I  heard  them 
not  five  minutes  ago,  and  besides,  the  storm 

[280] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

signal  is  up.  I  'm  getting  my  traps  together 
now.  Our  train  goes  at  three-ten  in  the  morn 
ing,  you  know." 

"  Our-train-goes-at-three-ten  —  in-the-morn- 

ing!" 

"  I  said  so." 

"  Our  train  ? " 

"Our  train:  the  one  which  is  to  take  us  out 
to  Rush  Lake.  Am  I  clear  ?  I  '11  wire  Johnson 
to  meet  us  with  the  buckboard." 

"  Clear,  yes;  but  go  in  the  morning —  Why, 
man,  you  're  crazy  !  I  have  engagements  for 
all  day  to-morrow." 

"So  have  I." 

"  And  the  next  day." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  the  next." 

"  A  whole  week  with  me.    What  of  it  ?  " 

"  What  of  it  !    Why,  business  —  " 

"  Confound  business  !  I  tell  you  they  're 
coming;  I  heard  them.  I  haven't  any  more 
time  to  waste  talking,  either.  I  've  got  to  get 
ready.  Meet  you  at  three-ten,  remember." 

"But  —  " 

"  Number,  please,"  requests  Central,  wearily. 

[287] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  IV — CAPITULATION 

r II  HUS  it  comes  to  pass  that  I  go ;  as  I 
•*•  know  from  the  first  I  shall  go,  and  Sand- 
ford  knows  that  I  will  go;  and,  most  of  all,  as 
Mary  knows  that  I  will  go. 

In  fact,  she  is  packing  for  me  already;  not 
saying  a  word,  but  simply  packing;  and  I  —  I 
go  out-doors  again,  sidling  into  a  jog  beside  the 
bow-window,  to  diminish  the  din  of  the  wind  in 
my  ears,  listening  open-mouthed  until  — 

Yes,  there  it  sounds  again ;  faint,  but  distinct ; 
mellow,  sonorous,  vibrant.  Honk !  honk  !  honk  ! 
and  again  honk  !  honk  !  honk  !  It  wafts  down 
ward  from  some  place,  up  above  where  the  stars 
should  be  and  are  not ;  up  above  the  artificial  il 
lumination  of  the  city ;  up  where  there  are  free 
dom,  and  space  infinite,  and  abandon  absolute. 

With  an  effort,  I  force  myself  back  into  the 
house.  I  take  down  and  oil  my  old  double- 
barrel,  lovingly,  and  try  the  locks  to  see  that 
all  is  in  order.  I  lay  out  my  wrinkled  and 

[288] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

battered  duck  suit  handy  for  the  morning,  after 
carefully  storing  away  in  an  inner  pocket, 
where  they  will  keep  dry,  the  bundle  of  post 
cards  Mary  brings  me  —  first  exacting  a  prom 
ise  to  report  on  one  each  day,  when  I  know  I 
shall  be  five  miles  from  the  nearest  postoffice, 
and  that  I  shall  bring  them  all  back  unused. 

And,  last  of  all,  I  slip  to  bed,  and  to  dreams 
of  gigantic  honkers  serene  in  the  blue  above; 
of  whirring,  whistling  wings  that  cut  the  air 
like  myriad  knife  blades ;  until  I  wake  up  with 
a  start  at  the  rattle  of  the  telephone  beside  my 
bed,  and  I  know  that,  though  dark  as  a  pit  of 
pitch,  it  is  morning,  and  that  Sandford  is  al 
ready  astir. 


A  BREATH   OF   PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  V — ANTICIPATION 

IN  the  smoking-car  forward  I  find  Sand- 
ford.  He  is  a  most  disreputable-looking 
specimen.  Garbed  in  weather-stained  cordu 
roys,  and  dried-grass  sweater,  and  great  calf 
skin  boots,  he  sprawls  among  gun-cases  and 
shell-carriers  —  no  sportsman  will  entrust  these 
essentials  to  the  questionable  ministrations  of  a 
baggage-man  —  and  the  air  about  him  is  blue 
from  the  big  cigar  he  is  puffing  so  ecstatically. 
He  nods  and  proffers  me  its  mate. 

"Going  to  be  a  great  day,"  he  announces 
succinctly,  and  despite  a  rigorous  censorship 
there  is  a  suggestion  of  excitement  in  the  voice. 
"  The  wind 's  dead  north,  and  it 's  cloudy  and 
damp.  Rain,  maybe,  about  daylight." 

"  Yes."  I  am  lighting  up  stolidly,  although 
my  nerves  are  atingle. 

"  We  're  going  to  hit  it  right,  just  right.  The 
flight 's  on.  I  heard  them  going  over  all  night. 
The  lake  will  be  black  with  the  big  fellows,  the 
Canada  boys." 

[290] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

"Yes,"  I  repeat;  then  conscience  gives  a 
last  dig.  "  I  ought  not  to  do  it,  though.  I 
didn't  have  time  to  break  a  single  engage 
ment  " —  I  'm  a  dental  surgeon,  too,  by  the  way, 
with  likewise  an  office  of  tile  and  enamel  —  "  or 
explain  at  all.  And  the  muss  there  '11  be  at  the 
shop  when — " 

"Forget  it,  you  confounded  old  dollar- 
grubber  ! "  A  fresh  torrent  of  smoke  belches 
forth,  so  that  I  see  Sandford's  face  but  dimly 
through  the  haze.  "  If  you  mention  teeth  again, 
until  we  're  back — merely  mention  them  —  I  '11 
throttle  you  ! " 

The  train  is  in  motion  now,  and  the  arc-lights 
at  the  corners,  enshrouded  each  by  a  zone  of 
mist,  are  flitting  by. 

"Yes,"  he  repeats,  and  again  his  voice  has 
that  minor  strain  of  suppressed  excitement, 
"  we  're  hitting  it  just  right.  There  '11  be  rain, 
or  a  flurry  of  snow,  maybe,  and  the  paddle  feet 
will  be  down  in  the  clouds." 


[291] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  VI  —  "MARK  THE  RIGHT, 
SANDFORD  ! " 

AND  they  are.  Almost  before  we  have 
stumbled  off  at  the  deserted  station  into 
the  surrounding  darkness,  Johnson's  familiar 
bass  is  heralding  the  fact. 

"  Millions  of  'em,  boys,"  he  assures  us,  "  bill 
ions  I  Couldn't  sleep  last  night  for  the  racket 
they  made  on  the  lake.  Never  saw  anything 
like  it  in  the  twenty  years  I  Ve  lived  on  the 
bank.  You  sure  have  struck  it  this  time.  Right 
this  way,"  he  is  staggering  under  the  load  of 
our  paraphernalia ; "  rig 's  all  ready  and  Molly 's 
got  the  kettle  on  at  home,  waiting  breakfast  for 

you Just  as  fat  as  you  were  last 

year,  ain't  ye  ? "  a  time-proven  joke,  for  I  weigh 
one  hundred  and  eight  pounds.  "  Try  to  pull 
you  out,  though;  try  to."  And  his  great  laugh 
drowns  the  roar  of  the  retreating  train. 

At  another  time,  that  five-mile  drive  in  the 
denser  darkness,  just  preceding  dawn,  would 

[292] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

have  been  long  perhaps,  the  springs  of  that  an 
tiquated  buckboard  inadequate,  the  chill  of  that 
damp  October  air  piercing;  but  now  —  we  no 
tice  nothing,  feel  nothing  uncomfortable.  My 
teeth  chatter  a  bit  now  and  then,  when  I  am  off 
guard,  to  be  sure;  but  it  is  not  from  cold,  and 
the  vehicle  might  be  a  Pullman  coach  for  aught 
I  am  conscious. 

For  we  have  reached  the  border  of  the  marsh, 
now,  and  are  skirting  its  edge,  and — Yes,  those 
are  ducks,  really;  that  black  mass,  packed  into 
the  cove  at  the  lee  of  those  clustering  rushes, 
protected  from  the  wind,  the  whole  just  dis 
tinguishable  from  the  lighter  shadow  of  the 
water :  ducks  and  brant ;  dots  of  white,  like  the 
first  scattered  snowflakes  on  a  sooty  city  roof  I 

"Mark  the  right,  Sandford,"  I  whisper  in 
oblivion.  "  Mark  the  right ! " 

And,  breaking  the  spell,  Johnson  laughs. 


[  293  ] 


A  BREATH   OF   PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  VII  —  THE  BACON  WHAT  AM  ! 

WHEN  is  bacon  bacon,  and  eggs  eggs  ? 
When  is  coffee  coffee,  and  the  despised 
pickerel,  fresh  from  the  cold  water  of  the 
shaded  lake,  a  glorious  brown  food,  fit  for  the 
gods  ? 

Answer,  while  Molly  (whose  real  name  is 
Aunt  Martha)  serves  them  to  us,  forty-five 
minutes  later. 

Oh,  if  we  only  had  time  to  eat,  as  that  break 
fast  deserves  to  be  eaten  !  If  we  only  had  time  ! 

But  we  haven't;  no;  Sandford  says  so,  in  a 
voice  that  leaves  no  room  for  argument.  The 
sky  is  beginning  to  redden  in  the  east;  the  sur 
face  of  the  water  reflects  the  glow,  like  a  mirror ; 
and,  seen  through  the  tiny-paned  windows, 
black  specks,  singly  and  in  groups,  appear  and 
disappear,  in  shifting  patterns,  against  the 
lightening  background. 

"No  more  now,  Aunt  Martha — no.  Wait 
until  noon;  just  wait  —  and  then  watch  us! 
Ready,  Ed?" 

[294] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

"  Waiting  for  you,  Sam."  It 's  been  a  year 
since  I  called  him  by  his  Christian  name;  but  I 
never  notice,  nor  does  he.  "  All  ready." 

"Better  try  the  point  this  morning;  don't 
you  think,  Johnson  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you've  your  eye  with  ye.  Won't 
wait  while  y'  sprinkle  salt  on  their  tails,  them 
red-heads  and  canvas  boys.  No,  sir-ree." 


A   BREATH   OF   PRAIRIE 


CHAPTER  VIII  —  FEATHERED  BULLETS 

THE  breath  of  us  is  whistling  through 
our  nostrils,  like  the  muffled  exhaust  of  a 
gasoline  engine,  and  our  hearts  are  thumping 
two-steps  on  our  ribs  from  the  exertion,  when 
we  reach  the  end  of  the  rock-bestrewn  point 
which,  like  a  long  index  finger,  is  thrust  out 
into  the  bosom  of  the  lake.  The  wind,  still  dead 
north,  and  laden  with  tiny  drops  of  moisture, 
like  spray  from  a  giant  atomizer,  buffets  us 
steadily;  but  thereof  we  are  sublimely  un 
conscious. 

For  at  last  we  are  there,  there;  precisely 
where  we  were  yesterday  —  no,  a  year  ago  — 
and  the  light  is  strong  enough  now,  so  that  when 
our  gun-barrels  stand  out  against  the  sky,  we 
can  see  the  sights,  and  — 

Down  !  Down,  behind  the  nearest  stunted 
willow  tree;  behind  anything — quick!  —  for 
they're  coming:  a  great  dim  wedge,  with  the 
apex  toward  us,  coming  swiftly  on  wings  that 

[296] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

propel  two  miles  to  the  minute,  when  backed  by 
a  wind  that  makes  a  mile  in  one. 

Coming — no;  arrived.  Fair  overhead  are 
the  white  of  breasts,  of  plump  bodies  flashing 
through  the  mist,  the  swishing  hiss  of  many 
wings  cutting  the  air,  the  rhythmic  pat,  pat 

—  "Bang!  Bang!" 

Was  it  Sandford's  gun,  or  was  it  mine?  Who 
knows  ?  The  reports  were  simultaneous. 

And    then  —  splash!    and    a    second    later, 

—  splash  I    as    two    dots    leave    the    hurtling 
wedge  and,   with  folded  wings,  pitch   at  an 
angle,  following  their  own  momentum,  against 
the  dull  brown  surface  of  the  rippling  water. 

Through  the  intervening  branches  and  dead 
sunflower  stalks,  I  look  at  Sandford  —  to  find 
that  Sandford  is  looking  at  me. 

"  Good  work,  old  man  ! "  I  say,  and  notice 
that  my  voice  is  a  little  higher  than  normal. 

"Good  work,  yourself,"  —  generously.  "I 
missed  clean,  both  barrels.  Do  better  next  time, 
though,  perhaps  ....  Down!  Mark 
north  !  Take  the  leader,  you." 

From  out  the  mist,  dead  ahead,  just  skim- 
ning  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  coming 

[297] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

straight  at  us,  like  a  mathematically  arranged 
triangle  of  cannon  balls,  taking  definite  form 
and  magnitude  oh,  so  swiftly,  unbelievably 
swift;  coming — yes  —  directly  overhead,  as  be 
fore,  the  pulsing,  echoing  din  in  our  ears. 

"Ready!" 

Again  the  four  reports  that  sounded  as  two; 
and  they  are  past;  no  longer  a  regular  forma 
tion,  but  scattered  erratically  by  the  alarm,  in 
dividual  vanishing  and  dissolving  dots,  speedily 
swallowed  up  by  the  gray  of  the  mist. 

But  this  time  there  was  no  echoing  splash,  as 
a  hurtling  body  struck  the  water,  nor  tense 
spoken  word  of  congratulation  following — 
nothing.  For  ten  seconds,  which  is  long  under 
the  circumstances,  not  a  word  is  spoken;  only 
the  metallic  click  of  opened  locks,  as  they  spring 
home,  breaks  the  steady  purr  of  the  wind ;  then : 

"  Safe  from  me  when  they  come  like  that," 
admits  Sandford,  "unless  I  have  a  ten- foot 
pole,  and  they  happen  to  run  into  it." 

"  And  from  me,"  I  echo. 

"  Lord,  how  they  come  !  They  just  simply 
materialize  before  your  eyes,  like  an  impres 
sion  by  flash-light;  and  then  —  vanish." 

[298] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

"Yes." 

"  Seems  as  though  they  'd  take  fire,  like  me 
teorites,  from  the  friction." 

"I'm  looking  for  the  smoke,  myself  — 
Down !  Mark  your  left ! " 

Pat!  pat!  pat!  Swifter  than  spoken 
words,  swift  as  the  strokes  of  an  electric  fan, 
the  wings  beat  the  air.  Swish-h-h!  long-drawn 
out,  crescendo,  yet  crescendo  as,  razor-keen,  ir 
resistible,  those  same  invisible  wings  cut  it 
through  and  through;  while,  answering  the 
primitive  challenge,  responding  to  the  stimulus 
of  the  game,  the  hot  tingle  of  excitement  speeds 
up  and  down  our  spines.  Nearer,  nearer, 
mounting,  perpendicular  — 

The  third  battalion  of  that  seemingly  in 
exhaustible  army  has  come  and  gone;  and,  me 
chanically,  we  are  thrusting  fresh  shells  into 
the  faintly  smoking  gun-barrels. 

"  Got  mine  that  time,  both  of  them."  No  re 
pression,  nor  polite  self-abnegation  from  Sand- 
ford  this  time;  just  plain,  frank  exultation  and 
pride  of  achievement.  "  Led  'em  a  yard — two, 
maybe ;  but  I  got  'em  clean.  Did  you  see  ? " 

"  Yes,  good  work,"  I  echo  in  the  formula. 

[299] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Canvas-backs,  every  one ;  nothing  but  can 
vas-backs."  Again  the  old  marvel,  the  old  palli 
ation  that  makes  the  seemingly  unequal  game 
fair.  "But,  Lord,  how  they  do  go;  how  any 
thing  alive  can  go  so  —  and  be  stopped  ! " 

"  Mark  to  windward  1  Straight  ahead  I 
Down!" 


[800] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 


CHAPTER  IX — OBLIVION 

r  1 1  HIS,  the  morning.  Then,  almost  be- 
•*•  fore  we  mark  the  change,  swift-passing 
time  has  moved  on ;  the  lowering  mist  has  lifted ; 
the  occasional  pattering  rain-drops  have  ceased ; 
the  wind,  in  sympathy,  is  diminished.  And  of  a 
sudden,  arousing  us  to  a  consciousness  of  time 
and  place,  the  sun  peeps  forth  through  a  rift  in 
the  scattering  clouds,  and  at  a  point  a  bit  south 
of  the  zenith. 

"  Noon  ! "  comments  Sandf  ord,  intensely  sur 
prised.  Somehow,  we  are  always  astonished 
that  noon  should  follow  so  swiftly  upon  sunrise. 
"  Well,  who  would  have  thought  it ! " 

That  instant  I  am  conscious,  for  the  first 
time,  of  a  certain  violent  aching  void  making 
insistent  demand. 

"I  wouldn't  have  done  so  before,  but  now 
that  you  mention  it,  I  do  think  it  emphatically." 
This  is  a  pitiful  effort  at  a  jest,  but  it  passes 
unpunished.  "  There  comes  Johnson  to  bring 
in  the  birds." 

[soi] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

After  dinner — and  oh,  what  a  dinner  !  for, 
having  adequate  time  to  do  it  justice,  we  drag 
it  on  and  on,  until  even  Aunt  Martha  is  satisfied 
—  we  curl  up  in  the  sunshine,  undimmed  and 
gloriously  warm;  we  light  our  briers,  and,  too 
lazily,  nervelessly  content  to  even  talk,  lay 
looking  out  over  the  blue  water  that  melts  and 
merges  in  the  distance  with  the  bluer  sky  above. 
After  a  bit,  our  pipes  burn  dead  and  our  eye 
lids  drop,  and  with  a  last  memory  of  sunlight 
dancing  on  a  myriad  tiny  wavelets,  and  a 
blessed  peace  and  abandon  soaking  into  our 
very  souls  we  doze,  then  sleep,  sleep  as  we  never 
sleep  in  the  city;  as  we  had  fancied  a  short  day 
before  never  to  sleep  again ;  dreamlessly,  child 
ishly,  as  Mother  Nature  intended  her  children 
to  sleep. 

Then,  from  without  the  pale  of  utter  obliv 
ion,  a  familiar  voice  breaks  slowly  upon  our  con 
sciousness  :  the  voice  of  Johnson,  the  vigilant. 

"  Got  your  blind  all  built,  boys,  and  the  de 
coys  is  out  —  four  dozen  of  them,"  he  admon 
ishes,  sympathetically.  "Days  are  getting 
short,  now,  so  you  'd  better  move  lively,  if  you 
get  your  limit  before  dark." 

[302] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 


CHAPTER  X  —  UPON  "WIPING  THE  EYE" 

TO  poets  and  epicures,  perhaps,  the  lordly 
canvas-back  —  though  brown  from  the 
oven,  I  challenge  the  supercilious  gourmet  to 
distinguish  between  his  favorite,  and  a  fat 
American  coot.  But  for  me  the  loud-voiced 
mallard,  with  his  bottle-green  head  and  auda 
ciously  curling  tail;  for  he  will  decoy." 

I  am  quoting  Sandford.  Be  that  as  it  may, 
we  are  there,  amid  frost-browned  rushes  that 
rustle  softly  in  the  wind:  a  patch  of  shallow 
open  water,  perhaps  an  acre  in  extent,  to  the 
leeward  of  us,  where  the  decoys,  heading  all  to 
windward,  bob  gently  with  the  slight  swell. 

"  Now  this  is  something  like  sport,"  adds  my 
companion,  settling  back  comfortably  in  the 
slough-grass  blind,  built  high  to  the  north  to 
cut  out  the  wind,  and  low  to  the  south  to  let  in 
the  sun.  "On  the  point,  there,  this  morning 
you  scored  on  me,  I  admit  it;  but  this  is  where 
I  shine:  real  shooting;  one,  or  a  pair  at  most,  at 

[303] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

a  time ;  no  scratches ;  no  excuses.  Lead  on,  Mac- 
Duff,  and  if  you  miss,  all 's  fair  to  the  second 
gun." 

"All  right,  Sam." 

"No  small  birds,  either,  understand:  no  teal, 
or  widgeon,  or  shovellers.  This  is  a  mallard 
hole.  Nothing  but  mallards  goes." 

"All right,  Sam." 

"  Now  is  your  chance,  then.    .    .    .    Now  I" 

He 's  right.    Now  is  my  chance,  indeed. 

Over  the  sea  of  rushes,  straight  toward  us,  is 
coming  a  pair,  a  single  pair ;  and,  yes,  they  are 
unmistakably  mallards.  It  is  feeding  time,  or 
resting  time,  and  they  are  flying  lazily,  long 
necks  extended,  searching  here  and  there  for  the 
promised  lands.  Our  guns  indubitably  cover  it ; 
and  though  I  freeze  still  and  motionless,  my 
nerves  stretch  tight  in  anticipation,  until  they 
tingle  all  but  painfully. 

On  the  great  birds  come;  on  and  still  on,  until 
in  another  second  — 

That  instant  they  see  the  decoys,  and,  warned 
simultaneously  by  an  ancestral  suspicion,  they 
swing  outward  in  a  great  circle,  without  appar 
ent  effort  on  their  part,  to  reconnoitre. 

[304,] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 

Though  I  do  not  stir,  I  hear  the  pat !  pat ! 
of  their  wings,  as  they  pass  by  at  the  side,  just 
out  of  gunshot.  Then,  pat !  pat !  back  of  me, 
then,  pat!  pat!  on  the  other  side,  until  once 
again  I  see  them,  from  the  tail  of  my  eye,  merge 
into  view  ahead. 

All  is  well  —  very  well  —  and,  suspicions 
wholly  allayed  at  last,  they  whirl  for  the  second 
oncoming;  just  above  the  rushes,  now;  wings 
spread  wide  and  motionless;  sailing  nearer, 
nearer  — 

"Now!"  whispers  Sandford,  "now!" 

Out  of  our  nest  suddenly  peeps  my  gun  bar 
rel;  and,  simultaneously,  the  wings,  a  second 
before  motionless,  begin  to  beat  the  air  in  fran 
tic  retreat. 

But  it  is  too  late. 

Bang  !  What !  not  a  feather  drops  ?  .  .  .  . 
Bang !  Quack  !  Quack  !  Bang !  Bang ! 
....  Splash !  .  .  .  .  Quack !  Quack ! 
Quack  ! 

That  is  the  story  —  all  except  for  Sandford's 
derisive  laugh. 

"  What  'd  I  tell  you  ? "  he  exults.  "  Wiped 
your  eye  for  you  that  time,  did  n't  I  ?  " 

[305] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"How  in  the  world  I  missed — "  It  is  all 
that  I  can  say.  "They  looked  as  big  as  —  as 
suspended  tubs." 

"  Buck- fever,"  explains  Sandford,  laconi 
cally. 

"That's  all  right."  I  feel  my  fighting- 
blood  rising,  and  I  swear  with  a  mighty  word 
less  oath  that  I  '11  be  avenged  for  that  laugh. 
"  The  day  is  young  yet.  If,  before  night,  I 
don't  wipe  both  your  eyes,  and  wipe  them 
good—" 

"  I  know  you  will,  old  man."  Sandford  is 
smiling  understandingly,  and  in  a  flash  I  return 
the  smile  with  equal  understanding.  "And 
when  you  do,  laugh  at  me,  laugh  long  and 
loud." 


[  806  ] 


WHISTLING  WINGS 


CHAPTER  XI  —  THE  COLD  GRAY  DAWN 

AT  a  quarter  of  twelve  o'clock  a  week  later, 
I  slip  out  of  my  office  sheepishly,  and, 
walking  a  half -block,  take  the  elevator  to  the 
fifth  floor  of  the  Exchange  Building,  on  the 
corner.  The  white  enamel  of  Sandford's  tiny 
box  of  an  office  glistens,  as  I  enter  the  door,  and 
the  tiling  looks  fresh  and  clean,  as  though 
scrubbed  an  hour  before. 

"  Doctor 's  back  in  the  laboratory,"  smiles  the 
white-uniformed  attendant,  as  she  grasps  my 
identity. 

On  a  tall  stool,  beside  the  laboratory  lathe, 
sits  Sandford,  hard  at  work.  He  acknowledges 
my  presence  with  a  nod — and  that  is  all. 

"  Noon,  Sandford,"  I  announce. 

"Is  it?  "laconically. 

"Thought  I'd  drop  over  to  the  club  for 
lunch,  and  a  little  smoke  afterward.  Want  to 
go  along  ?  " 

"Can't."  The  whirr  of  the  electric  lathe 
[307] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

never  ceases.  "  Got  to  finish  this  bridge  before 
one  o'clock.  Sorry,  old  man." 

"  Harry  just  'phoned  and  asked  me  to  come 
and  bring  you."  I  throw  the  bait  with  studied 
nicety.  "  He 's  getting  up  a  party  to  go  out  to 
Johnson's,  and  wants  to  talk  things  over  a  bit  in 
advance." 

"  Harry ! "  Irony  fairly  drips  from  the 
voice.  "He's  always  going  somewhere. 
Mustn't  have  much  else  to  do.  Anyway, 
can 't  possibly  meet  him  this  noon." 

"To-night,  then."  I  suggest  tentatively. 
"  He  can  wait  until  then,  I  'm  sure." 

"  Got  to  work  to-night,  too.  Things  are  all 
piled  up  on  me."  Sandford  applies  a  fresh 
layer  of  pumice  to  the  swiftly  moving  polishing 
wheel,  with  practised  accuracy.  "Tell  Harry 
I  'm  sorry;  but  business  is  business,  you  know." 

"Purr-r-rl"  drones  on  the  lathe, <f  purr-r-r!" 
I  hear  it  as  I  silently  slip  away. 

Yes,  Sandford  is  sane ;  and  will  be  for  fifty- 
one  weeks. 


308] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

A  TALE  OF  JUMEL  MANSION 


ANEW  settlement  in  a  new  country:  no 
contemporary  mind  can  conceive  the  pos 
sibilities  of  future  greatness  that  lie  in  the  ful 
filment  of  its  prophecy. 

A  long,  irregular  quadrangle  has  been  hewn 
from  the  woods  bordering  the  north  bank  of  the 
Ohio  River.  Scattered  through  the  clearing  are 
rude  houses,  built  of  the  forest  logs.  Bounding 
the  space  upon  three  sides,  and  so  close  that  its 
storm  music  sounds  plain  in  every  ear,  is  the 
forest  itself.  On  the  fourth  side  flows  the  wide 
river,  covered  now,  firm  and  silent,  with  a  thick 
ice  blanket.  Across  the  river  on  the  Kentucky 
shore,  softened  by  the  blue  haze  of  distance, 
another  forest  crowds  down  to  the  very  water's 
edge. 

It  is  night,  and  of  the  cabins  in  the  clearing 
each  reflects,  in  one  way  or  another,  the 

[  309  ] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

character  of  its  builder.  Here  a  broad  pen 
cil  of  light  writes  "  Careless  ! "  on  the  black 
sheet  of  the  forest ;  there  a  mere  thread  escaping 
tells  of  patient  carpentry. 

At  one  end  of  the  clearing,  so  near  the  forest 
that  the  top  of  a  falling  tree  would  have 
touched  it,  stood  a  cabin,  individual  in  its  com 
plete  darkness  except  for  a  dull  ruddy  glow  at 
one  end,  where  a  window  extended  as  high  as 
the  eaves.  An  open  fire  within  gnawed  at  the 
half -green  logs,  sending  smoke  and  steam  up 
the  cavernous  chimney,  and  casting  about  the 
room  an  uncertain,  fitful  light — now  bright, 
again  shadowy. 

It  was  a  bare  room  that  the  flickering  fire 
light  revealed,  bare  alike  as  to  its  furnishings 
and  the  freshness  of  its  peeled  logs,  the  spaces 
between  which  had  been  "chinked"  with  clay 
from  the  river-bank.  Scarcely  a  thing  built  of 
man  was  in  sight  which  had  not  been  designed 
to  kill ;  scarcely  a  product  of  Nature  which  had 
not  been  gathered  at  cost  of  animal  life.  Guns 
of  English  make,  stretched  horizontally  along 
the  walls  upon  pegs  driven  into  the  logs ;  in  the 
end  opposite  the  wide  fireplace,  home-made 

[310] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

cooking  utensils  dangled  from  the  end  of  a 
rough  table,  itself  a  product  of  the  same  fac 
tory.  In  front  of  the  fire,  just  beyond  the 
blaze  and  the  coals  and  ashes,  were  heaped  the 
pelts  of  various  animals ;  black  bear  and  cinna 
mon  rested  side  by  side  with  the  rough,  shaggy 
fur  of  the  buffalo,  brought  by  Indians  from  the 
far  western  land  of  the  Dakotas. 

Upon  the  heap,  dressed  in  the  picturesque 
utility  garb  of  buckskin,  homespun,  and  "  hick 
ory"  which  stamped  the  pioneer  of  his  day,  a 
big  man  lay  at  full  length:  a  large  man  even 
here,  where  the  law  of  the  fittest  reigned 
supreme.  A  stubbly  growth  of  beard  covered 
his  face,  giving  it  the  heavy  expression  common 
to  those  accustomed  to  silent  places,  and  dim 
forest  trails. 

Aside  from  his  size,  there  was  nothing  strik 
ing  or  handsome  about  this  backwoods  giant, 
neither  of  face  nor  of  form;  yet,  sleeping  or 
waking,  working  or  at  leisure,  he  would  be 
noticed — and  remembered.  In  his  every  fea 
ture,  every  action,  was  the  absolute  uncon 
sciousness  of  self,  which  cannot  be  mistaken; 
whether  active  or  passive,  there  was  about  him 

[311] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

an  insinuation  of  reserve  force,  subtly  felt,  of  a 
strong,  determined  character,  impossible  to 
sway  or  bend.  He  lay,  now,  motionless,  star 
ing  with  wide-open  eyes  into  the  fire  and  breath 
ing  slowly,  deeply,  like  one  in  sleep. 

There  was  a  hammering  upon  the  door;  an 
other,  louder;  then  a  rattling  that  made  the 
walls  vibrate. 

"  Come ! "  called  the  man,  rousing  and  roll 
ing  away  from  the  fire. 

A  heavy  shoulder  struck  the  door  hard,  and 
the  screaming  wooden  hinges  covered  the  sound 
of  the  entering  footfall. 

He  who  came  was  also  of  the  type :  homespun 
and  buckskin,  hair  long  and  face  unshaven. 
He  straightened  from  a  passage  which  was  not 
low,  then  turning  pushed  the  unwieldy  door 
shut.  It  closed  reluctantly,  with  a  loud  shrill 
ing  of  its  frost-bound  hinges  and  frame.  In  a 
moment  he  dropped  his  hands  and  impatiently 
kicked  the  stubborn  offender  home,  the  suction 
drawing  a  puff  of  smoke  from  the  fireplace  into 
the  room,  and  sending  the  ashes  spinning  in 
miniature  whirlwinds  upon  the  hearth. 

The  man  on  the  floor  contemplated  the  entry 

[312] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

with  indifference;  but  a  new  light  entered  his 
eyes  as  he  recognized  his  visitor,  though  his  face 
held  like  wood. 

"Evenin',  Clayton,"  he  greeted,  nodding 
toward  a  stool  by  the  hearth.  "  Come  over 'n  sit 
down  to  the  entertainment."  A  whimsical 
smile  struggled  through  the  heavy  whiskers. 
"I  've  been  seeing  all  sorts  of  things  in  there  " 
—  a  thoughtful  nod  toward  the  fire.  "  Guess, 
though,  a  fellow  generally  does  see  what  he's 
looking  for  in  this  world." 

"  See  here,  Bud,"  the  visitor  bluntly  broke  in, 
coming  into  the  light  and  slurring  a  dialect  of 
no  nationality  pure,  "y'  can't  stop  me  thata- 
way.  There  ain't  no  use  talkin'  about  the 
weather,  neither."  A  motion  of  impatience; 
then  swifter,  with  a  shade  of  menace : 

'You  know  what  I  came  over  fer.  It's 
actin'  the  fool,  I  know,  we  few  families  out 
here  weeks  away  from  ev'rybody,  but  this 
clearin'  can't  hold  us  both." 

The  menace  suddenly  left  the  voice,  uncon 
sciously  giving  place  to  a  note  of  tenderness 
and  of  vague  self -fear. 

"  I  love  that  girl  better  'n  you  er  life  er  any- 

[313] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

thing  else,  Bud;  I  tell  ye  this  square  to  yer 
face.  I  can't  stand  it.  I  followed  ye  last  night 
clean  home  from  the  party  —  an'  I  had  a  knife. 
I  jest  couldn't  help  it.  Every  time  I  know 
nex'  time  it  11  happen.  I  don't  ask  ye  to  give 
her  up,  Bud,  but  to  settle  it  with  me  now,  fair 
an'  open,  'fore  I  do  something  I  can't  help." 

He  strode  swiftly  to  and  fro  across  the  room 
as  he  spoke,  his  skin-shod  feet  tapping  muffled 
upon  the  bare  floor,  like  the  pads  of  an  animal. 
The  fur  of  his  leggings,  rubbing  together  as  he 
walked,  generated  static  sparks  which  snapped 
audibly.  He  halted  presently  by  the  fireplace, 
and  looked  down  at  the  man  lying  there. 

"  It 's  'tween  us,  Bud,"  he  said,  passion  quiv 
ering  in  his  voice. 

Minutes  passed  before  Bud  Ellis  spoke,  then 
he  shifted  his  head,  quickly,  and  for  the  first 
time  squarely  met  Clayton's  eyes. 

"  You  say  it 's  between  you  and  me,"  he  ini 
tiated  slowly:  "how  do  you  propose  to  settle 
it?" 

The  other  man  hesitated,  then  his  face  grew 
red. 

"  Ye  make  it  hard  for  me,  Bud,  's  though  I 

[314] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

was  a  boy  talkin'  to  ye  big  here ;  but  it 's  true, 
as  I  told  ye:  I  ain't  myself  when  I  see  ye  settin' 
close  to  'Liz'beth,  er  dancin'  with  your  arm 
touchin'  hern.  I  ain't  no  coward,  Bud;  an'  I 
can't  give  her  up — to  you  ner  nobody  else. 

"  I  hate  it.  We  've  always  been  like  brothers 
afore,  an'  it  'pears  kinder  dreamy  'n  foolish  'n 
unnatural  us  settin'  here  talkin'  'bout  it;  but 
there  ain't  no  other  way  I  can  see.  I  give  ye 
yer  choice,  Bud:  I  '11  fight  ye  fair  any  way  y' 
want." 

Ellis's  attitude  remained  unchanged:  one  big 
hand  supported  his  chin  while  he  gazed  silently 
into  the  fire.  Clayton  stood  contemplating  him 
a  moment,  then  sat  down. 

By  and  by  Ellis's  head  moved  a  little,  a  very 
little,  and  their  eyes  again  met.  A  minute 
passed,  and  in  those  seconds  the  civilization  of 
each  man  moved  back  generations. 

The  strain  was  beyond  Clayton;  he  bounded 
to  his  feet  with  a  motion  that  sent  the  stool 
spinning. 

"  God  A'mighty !  Are  y'wood  er  are  y'a 
coward  ?  Y'  seem  to  think  I  'm  practisin' 
speech-makin'.  D'ye  know  what  it  means  fer 

[315] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

me  to  come  up  here  like  this  to  you  ?"  He 
waited,  but  there  was  no  response. 

"  I  tell  ye  f  er  the  last  time,  I  love  that  girl, 
an'  if  it  war  n't  fer  you  —  fer  you,  Bud  Ellis 
—  she'd  marry  me.  Can  ye  understand  that  ? 
Now  will  ye  fight  ?  —  or  won't  ye  ? " 

A  movement,  swift  and  easy,  like  a  released 
spring,  the  unconscious  trick  of  a  born  athlete, 
and  Ellis  was  upon  his  feet.  Involuntarily, 
Clayton  squared  himself,  as  if  an  attack  were 
imminent. 

"  No,  I  won't  fight  you,"  said  the  big  man, 
slowly.  Without  the  least  hesitation,  he  ad 
vanced  and  laid  a  hand  upon  the  other  man's 
shoulder,  facing  him  at  arm's  length  and  speak 
ing  deliberately. 

"It  isn't  that  I'm  afraid  of  you,  either, 
Bert  Clayton ;  you  know  it.  You  say  you  love 
her ;  I  believe  you.  I  love  her,  too.  And  Eliza 
beth —  you  have  tried,  and  I  have  tried — and 
she  told  us  both  the  same. 

"God,  man  !  I  know  how  you  feel.  I've 
expected  something  like  this  a  long  time."  He 
drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  turned  away. 
"I've  had  murder  in  my  heart  when  I  saw 

[316] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

you,  and  hated  myself.  It 's  only  in  such  places 
as  this,  where  nothing  happens  to  divert  one's 
mind,  that  people  get  like  you  and  me,  Bert. 
We  brood  and  brood,  and  it 's  love  and  insanity 
and  a  good  deal  of  the  animal  mixed.  Yes, 
you  're  right.  It 's  between  you  and  me,  Bert, 

—  but  not  to  fight.     One  of  us  has  got  to 
leave  —  " 

"  It  won't  be  me,"  Clayton  quickly  broke  in. 
"  I  tell  ye,  I  'd  rather  die,  than  leave." 

For  a  full  minute  Ellis  steadily  returned  the 
other  man's  fiery  look,  then  went  on  as  though 
there  had  been  no  interruption : 

"  —  and  the  sooner  we  go  the  better.  How  do 
you  want  to  settle  it  —  shall  we  draw  straws  ?" 

"  No,  we  '11  not  draw  straws.  Go  ef  you  're 
afraid ;  but  I  won't  stir  a  step.  I  came  to  warn 
ye,  or  to  fight  ye  if  y'  wanted.  Seein'  y'  won't 

—  good-night." 

Ellis  stepped  quickly  in  front  of  the  door, 
and  with  the  motion  Clayton's  hand  went  to  his 
knife. 

"  Sit  down,  man,"  demanded  Ellis,  sternly. 
"We're  not  savages.  Let's  settle  this  matter 
in  civilized  fashion." 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

They  confronted  each  other  for  a  moment, 
the  muscles  of  Clayton's  face  twitching  an  ac 
companiment  to  the  nervous  fingering  of  the 
buckhorn  hilt;  then  he  stepped  up  until  they 
could  have  touched. 

"  What  dy  mean  anyway  ? "  he  blazed.  "  Get 
out  o'  my  road." 

Ellis  leaned  against  the  door-bar  without  a 
word.  The  fire  had  burned  down,  and  in  the 
shadow  his  face  had  again  the  same  expression 
of  heaviness.  The  breathing  of  Clayton,  swift 
and  short,  like  one  who  struggles  physically, 
painfully  intensified  the  silence  of  that  dimly 
lighted,  log-bound  room. 

With  his  right  hand  Clayton  drew  his  knife; 
he  laid  his  left  on  the  broad  half -circle  of  wood 
that  answered  as  a  door  handle. 

"  Open  that  door,"  he  demanded  huskily,  "  or 
by  God,  I '11  stab  ye!" 

In  the  half-light  the  men  faced  each  other,  so 
near  their  breaths  mingled.  Twice  Clayton 
tried  to  strike.  The  eyes  of  the  other  man  held 
him  powerless,  and  to  save  his  life  —  even  to 
satisfy  a  new,  fierce  hate — he  could  not  stir. 
He  stood  a  moment  thus,  then  an  animal-like 

[318] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

frenzy,  irresistible  but  impotent,  seized  him. 
He  darted  his  head  forward  and  spat  in  the 
heavy  face  so  close  to  his  own. 

The  unspeakable  contempt  of  the  insult 
shattered  Bud  Ellis's  self-control.  Prompted 
by  blind  fury,  the  great  fist  of  the  man  shot  out, 
hammer-like,  and  Clayton  crumpled  at  his  feet. 
It  was  a  blow  that  would  have  felled  the  pro 
verbial  ox ;  it  was  the  counterpart  of  many  other 
blows,  plus  berserker  rage,  that  had  split  pine 
boards  for  sheer  joy  in  the  ability  to  do  so. 
These  thoughts  came  sluggishly  to  the  inflamed 
brain,  and  Ellis  all  at  once  dropped  to  his  knees 
beside  the  limp,  prostrate  figure. 

He  bent  over  Clayton,  he  who  had  once  been 
his  friend.  He  was  scarcely  apprehensive  at 
first,  and  he  called  his  name  brusquely;  then, 
as  grim  conviction  grew,  his  appeals  became 
frantic. 

At  last  Ellis  shrank  away  from  the  Thing 
upon  the  floor.  He  stared  until  his  eyeballs 
burnt  like  fire.  It  would  never,  while  time 
lasted,  move  again. 

Horror  unutterable  fell  upon  him. 

[319] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 
II 

In  the  year  1807  there  were  confined  in 
a  common  Western  jail,  amid  a  swarm  of 
wretches  of  every  degree  of  baseness,  two  men 
as  unlike  as  storm  and  sunshine.  One  was 
charged  with  treason,  the  other  with  murder; 
conviction,  in  either  case,  meant  death. 

One  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  an  aristocrat 
born ;  a  college  graduate  and  a  son  of  a  college 
graduate;  a  man  handsome  of  appearance,  pas 
sionate  and  ambitious,  who  knew  men's  natures 
as  he  knew  their  names.  He  had  fought  bravely 
for  his  country,  and  his  counsels  had  helped 
mould  the  foundations  of  the  new  republic. 
Honored  by  his  fellow-men,  he  had  served  bril 
liantly  in  such  exalted  positions  as  that  of 
United  States  Senator,  and  Attorney  General 
for  the  State  of  New  York.  On  one  occasion, 
only  a  single  vote  stood  between  him  and  the 
presidency. 

His  name  was  Aaron  Burr. 

The  other  was  a  big  backwoodsman  of 
twenty,  whose  life  had  been  as  obscure  as 
that  of  a  domestic  animal.  He  was  rough  of 

[320] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

manner  and  slow  of  speech,  and  just  now, 
owing  to  a  combination  of  physical  confinement 
and  mental  torture  altogether  unlovely  in 
disposition. 

This  man  was  Bud  Ellis. 

The  other  prisoners  —  a  motley  lot  of  fron 
tier  reprobates  —  ate  together,  slept  together, 
and  quarrelled  together.  Looking  constantly 
for  trouble,  and  thrown  into  actual  contact 
with  an  object  as  convenient  as  Aaron  Burr, 
it  was  inevitable  that  he  should  be  made  the 
butt  of  their  coarse  gibes  and  foul  witticisms; 
and  when  these  could  not  penetrate  his  calm, 
superior  self-possession,  it  was  just  as  inevita 
ble  that  taunts  should  extend  even  to  worse 
indignities. 

Burr  was  not  the  man  to  be  stirred  against 
his  calm  judgment;  but  one  day  his  passionate 
nature  broke  loose,  and  he  and  the  offender 
came  to  blows. 

There  were  a  dozen  prisoners  in  the  single 
ill-lighted,  log-bound  room,  and  almost  to  a 
man  they  attacked  him.  The  fight  would  not 
have  lasted  long  had  not  the  inequality  appealed 
to  Ellis  on  the  second. 

[321] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Moreover,  with  him,  the  incident  was  to  the 
moment  opportune.  If  ever  a  man  was  in  the 
mood  for  war,  it  was  the  big,  square- jawed 
pioneer.  He  was  reckless  and  desperate  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  and  he  joined  with  Burr 
against  the  room,  with  the  abandon  of  a 
madman. 

For  minutes  they  fought.  Elbows  and 
knees,  fists  and  feet,  teeth  and  tough-skulled 
heads;  every  hard  spot  and  every  sharp  angle 
bored  and  jabbed  at  the  crushing  mass  which 
swiftly  closed  them  in.  They  struggled  like 
cats  against  numbers,  and  held  the  wall  until 
the  sound  of  battle  brought  the  negligent  guard 
running,  and  the  muzzle  of  a  carbine  peeped 
through  the  grating.  Burr  and  Ellis  came  out 
with  scarce  a  rag  and  with  many  bruises,  but 
with  the  new-born  lust  of  battle  hot  within 
them.  Ellis  glowered  at  the  enemy,  and  having 
of  the  two  the  more  breath,  fired  the  parting 
shot. 

"  How  I  'd  like  to  take  you  fellows  out,  one 
at  a  time,"  he  said. 

From  that  day  the  two  men  were  kept  apart 
from  the  others,  and  the  friendship  grew.  When 

[322] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

Burr  chose,  neither  man  nor  woman  could  resist 
him.  He  chose  now  and  Ellis,  by  habit  and  by 
nature  silent,  told  of  his  life  and  of  his  thoughts. 
It  was  a  new  tale  to  Burr,  these  dream  products 
of  a  strong  man,  and  of  solitude ;  and  so,  listen 
ing,  he  forgot  his  own  trouble.  The  hard  look 
that  had  formed  over  his  face  in  the  three  years 
past  vanished,  leaving  him  again  the  natural, 
fascinating  man  who  had  first  taken  the 
drawing-room  of  the  rare  old  Jumel  mansion 
by  storm.  It  was  genuine,  this  tale  that  Ellis 
told;  it  was  strong,  with  the  savor  of  Mother 
Nature  and  of  wild  things,  and  fascinating  with 
the  beauty  of  unconscious  telling. 

"And  the  girl?"  asked  Burr  after  Ellis 
finished  a  passionate  account  of  the  last  year. 
Unintentionally,  he  touched  flame  to  tinder. 

"  Don't  ask  me  about  her.  I  'm  not  fit.  She 
was  coming  to  see  me,  but  I  would  n't  let  her. 
She's  good  and  innocent;  she  never  imagined 
we  were  not  as  strong  as  she,  and  it's  killing 
her.  There 's  no  question  what  will  happen  to 
me;  everything  is  against  me,  and  I'll  be 
convicted. 

"No  one  understands  —  she  can't  herself; 

[323] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

but  she  feels  responsible  for  one  of  us,  already, 
and  will  feel  the  same  for  me  when  it 's  over. 
Anyway,  I  'd  never  see  her  again.  I  feel  differ 
ent  toward  her  now,  and  always  would.  I  'd 
never  live  over  again  days  like  I  have  in  the 
past  year :  days  I  hated  a  friend  I  'd  known  all 
my  life  —  because  we  both  loved  the  same 
woman.  If  the  Almighty  sent  love  of  woman 
into  the  world  to  be  bought  at  the  price  I  paid, 
it's  wrong,  and  He's  made  a  mistake.  It's 
contrary  to  Nature,  because  Nature  is  kind. 

"  Last  summer  I  'd  sit  out  of  doors  at  night 
and  watch  the  stars  come  out  thick,  like  old 
friends,  till  I  'd  catch  the  mood  and  be  content. 
The  wind  would  blow  up  from  the  south, 
softly,  like  some  one  fanning  me,  and  the  frogs 
and  crickets  would  sing  even  and  sleepy,  and 
I  'd  think  of  her  and  be  as  nearly  happy  as  it 
was  possible  for  me  to  be. 

"  Then,  somehow,  he  'd  drift  into  the  picture, 
and  it  grated.  I'd  wonder  why  this  love  of 
woman,  which  ought  to  make  one  feel  the  best 
of  everything  there  is  in  life;  which  ought  to 
make  one  kinder  and  tenderer  to  every  one, 
should  make  me  hate  him,  my  best  friend.  The 

[324] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

night  would  be  spoiled,  and  from  then  on  the 
crickets  would  sing  out  of  tune,  I  'd  go  to  bed, 
where,  instead  of  sleeping,  I  would  try  to  find 
out,  and  couldn't. 

"  And  at  last,  that  night — and  the  end  !  Oh, 
it's  horrible,  horrible  !  I  wish  to  God  they  'd 
try  me  quick,  and  end  it.  It  makes  me  hate  that 
girl  to  think  she 's  the  cause.  And  that  makes 
me  hate  myself,  for  I  know  she 's  innocent.  Oh, 
it 's  tangled — tangled  —  " 

Of  the  trial  which  followed,  the  world  knows. 
How  Burr  pleaded  his  own  case,  and  of  the 
brilliancy  of  the  pleading,  history  makes  record 
at  length.  'Twas  said  long  before,  when  the 
name  of  Burr  was  proud  on  the  Nation's  tongue 
— years  before  that  fatal  morning  on  Wee- 
kawken  Heights  —  that  no  judge  could  decide 
against  him.  Though  reviled  by  half  the  nation, 
it  would  seem  it  were  yet  true. 

Another  trial  followed;  but  of  this  history  is 
silent,  though  Aaron  Burr  pleaded  this  case  as 
well.  It  was  a  trial  for  manslaughter,  and 
every  circumstance,  even  the  prisoner's  word, 
declared  guilt.  To  show  that  a  person  may  be 

[325] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

guilty  in  act,  and  at  the  same  time,  in  reality,  in 
nocent,  calls  for  a  master  mind  —  the  mind  of 
a  Burr.  To  tell  of  passion,  one  must  have  felt 
passion,  and  of  such  Burr  had  known  his  full 
share.  No  lawyer  for  the  defence  was  ever 
better  prepared  than  Burr,  and  he  did  his  best. 
In  court  he  told  the  jury  a  tale  of  motive,  of 
circumstance,  and  of  primitive  love,  such  as  had 
never  been  heard  in  that  county  before;  such 
that  the  twelve  men,  without  leaving  their  seats, 
brought  a  verdict  of  "  Not  guilty." 

"  I  can't  thank  you  right,"  said  the  big  man, 
with  a  catch  in  his  voice,  wringing  Burr's  hand. 

"Don't  try,"  interrupted  Burr,  quickly. 
"You  did  as  much  for  me."  And  even  Burr 
did  not  attempt  to  say  any  more  just  then. 

Ill 

The  two  men  went  East  together,  travelling 
days  where  now  hours  would  suffice.  Why  Burr 
took  the  countryman  home  with  him,  knowing, 
as  he  did,  the  incongruity  of  such  a  step,  he  him 
self  could  not  have  told.  It  puzzled  Ellis  still 
more.  He  had  intended  going  far  away  to 

[326] 


The  two  men  went  East  together. 


A   FRONTIER   ROMANCE 

some  indefinite  place;  but  this  opportunity  of 
being  virtually  thrust  into  the  position  where  he 
most  wished  to  be,  was  unusual ;  it  was  a  rever 
sal  of  all  precedent;  and  so  why  demur  ? 

On  the  way,  Burr  told  much  of  his  life  — 
probably  more  than  he  had  told  before  in  years. 
He  knew  that  the  sympathy  of  Ellis  was  sin 
cere,  and  a  disinterested  motive  was  with  him  a 
new  thing,  a  key  to  confidence. 

A  woman  was  at  this  time,  and  had  been  for 
years,  foremost  in  Burr's  mind.  He  was  going 
to  see  her  now;  beyond  that  his  plans  were  dim. 
During  a  career  of  politics,  there  had  crept  into 
the  man's  life  much  that  was  hard  and  worldly ; 
but  this  attachment  was  from  ambition  far 
apart — his  most  sacred  thing. 

She  was  a  brilliant  woman,  this  friend  of 
Burr's ;  one  whom  many  sought ;  but  it  was  not 
this  which  influenced  him.  She  had  been  his 
best  friend,  and  had  taken  him  into  her  own 
home  during  the  darkest  hour  of  his  life,  when 
condemnation  was  everywhere.  Gossip  had 
fluttered,  but  to  no  avail.  Burr  never  forgot  a 
friend,  and  in  this  case  it  was  more  than  friend 
ship:  it  was  a  genuine  love  that  lasted;  for 

[327] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

years  later,  in  his  old  age  and  hers  as  well,  old 
Jumel  mansion  made  gay  at  their  wedding. 

"  What  do  you  expect  to  do  ? "  asked  Burr 
of  Ellis. 

"  Anything  just  now  that  will  make  me  for 
get,"  answered  the  countryman,  quickly.  "  So 
there's  enough  of  it  is  all  that  I  ask.  I  'm  go 
ing  to  get  a  little  more  education  first.  Some 
time  I  '11  study  law  —  that  is,  if  I  'm  here 
6  sometime.'  I  Ve  got  to  be  where  there 's  life 
and  action.  I  '11  never  end  by  being  common." 
He  paused  a  moment,  and  on  his  face  there 
formed  the  peculiar  heavy  look  that  had  con 
fronted  Clayton ;  a  mask  that  hid  a  determina 
tion,  which  nothing  of  earth  could  shake.  He 
finished  slowly:  "I'll  either  be  something,  or 
nothing." 

Biographers  leave  the  impression  that  at  this 
time  Burr  was  devoid  of  prestige  on  earth. 
Politically,  this  is  true ;  but  respecting  his  stand 
ing  with  the  legal  fraternity,  it  is  wholly  false. 
He  had  influence,  and  he  used  it,  securing  the 
stranger  a  place  in  a  New  York  office,  where  his 
risk  depended  only  upon  himself.  More  than 
this,  he  gave  Ellis  money. 

[328] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

"You  can  pay  me  any  interest  you  wish," 
said  he  when  the  latter  protested. 

Ellis  had  been  settled  a  week.  One  evening 
he  sat  in  the  back  room  of  the  city  office,  fight 
ing  the  demon  of  homesickness  with  work,  and 
the  light  of  an  open  fire.  It  was  late,  and  he 
had  studied  till  Nature  rebelled;  now  he  sat  in 
his  own  peculiar  position,  gazing  into  the  glow, 
motionless  and  wide-eyed. 

He  started  at  a  tap  on  the  door,  and  the  past 
came  back  in  a  rush. 

"  Come  in,"  he  called. 

Burr  entered,  and  closed  the  door  carefully 
behind  him.  Ellis  motioned  to  a  chair. 

"  No,  I  won't  sit  down,"  said  Burr.  "  I  'm 
only  going  to  stay  a  moment." 

He  came  over  to  the  blaze,  looking  down  on 
the  other  man's  head.  Finally  he  laid  a  hand 
on  Ellis's  shoulder. 

"  Lonesome,  eh  ? "  he  inquired. 

The  student  nodded  silent  assent. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Burr,  beginning  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  narrow  room.  "  Do  you  know," 
he  burst  out  at  last,  "this  town  is  like  hell  to 
me.  Every  hand  is  against  me.  There 's  not 

[329] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

one  man  here,  beside  you,  whom  I  can  trust.  I 
can't  stand  it.  I  'm  going  to  leave  the  country. 
Some  day  I'll  come  back;  but  now  it's  too 
much."  There  was  the  accumulated  bitterness 
of  months  in  his  voice,  "My  God  !"  he  inter 
jected,  "you'd  think  these  people  never  did 
anything  wrong  in  their  lives."  He  stopped  and 
laid  his  hand  again  on  the  other  man's  shoulder. 

"But  enough  of  this  —  I  didn't  come  to 
make  you  more  lonesome.  I  want  you  to  meet 
my  friends  before  I  go.  You'll  go  out  with 
me  to-morrow  afternoon  ? " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  If  you  wish.  You  know  what  I  am,"  said 
Ellis. 

Burr's  hand  rested  a  moment  longer. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  simply. 

Some  eight  or  ten  miles  north  of  the  beach, 
on  the  island  of  Manhattan,  stood  Jumel  home ; 
a  fine,  white  house,  surrounded  by  a  splendid 
lawn  and  gardens.  A  generation  had  already 
passed  since  its  erection,  and  the  city  was  slowly 
creeping  near.  It  was  a  stately  specimen  of 
Colonial  domestic  architecture,  built  on  simple, 
restful  lines,  and  distinguished  by  the  noble 

[330] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

columns  of  its  Grecian  front.  Destined  to  be 
diminished,  the  grounds  had  already  begun  to 
shrink;  but  from  its  commanding  position  it 
had  a  view  that  was  magnificent,  overlooking  as 
it  did,  the  Hudson,  the  Harlem,  the  East 
River,  the  Sound,  and  upon  every  side,  miles 
upon  miles  of  undulating  land. 

On  the  way,  and  again  upon  the  grounds, 
Burr  related  the  history  of  the  old  landmark, 
telling  much  with  the  fascination  of  personal 
knowledge.  The  tale  of  the  Morrises,  of  Wash 
ington  and  of  Mary  Philipse  was  yet  upon  his 
tongue,  as  he  led  Ellis  through  the  broad  pil 
lared  entrance,  into  the  great  hall. 

Things  moved  swiftly,  very  swiftly  and  very 
dreamily,  to  the  countryman  in  the  next  few 
hours.  Nothing  but  the  lack  of  ability  pre 
vented  his  vanishing  at  the  sound  of  approach 
ing  skirts;  nothing  but  physical  timidity  pre 
vented  his  answering  the  greeting  of  the 
hostess;  nothing  but  conscious  awkwardness 
prompted  the  crude  bow  that  answered  the 
courtesy  of  the  girl  with  the  small  hands,  and 
the  dark  eyes  who  accompanied  her  —  the  first 
courtesy  from  powdered  maid  of  fashion  that 

[331] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

he  had  ever  known.  Her  name,  Mary  Philipse, 
coming  so  soon  after  Burr's  story,  staggered 
him,  and,  open-mouthed,  he  stood  looking  at 
her.  Remembrance  came  to  Burr  simultane 
ously,  and  he  touched  Ellis  on  the  arm. 

"Don't  worry,  my  friend,"  he  laughed; 
"she 'snot  the  one." 

Ellis  grew  red  to  the  ears. 

"We'll  leave  you  to  Mary,"  said  Burr  re 
treating  with  a  smile;  "she'll  tell  you  the  rest 
—  from  where  I  left  off." 

The  girl  with  the  big  brown  eyes  was  still 
smiling  in  an  amused  sort  of  way,  but  Ellis 
showed  no  resentment.  He  knew  that  to  her  he 
was  a  strange  animal  —  very  new  and  very 
peculiar.  He  did  not  do  as  a  lesser  man  would 
have  done,  pretend  knowledge  of  things  un 
known,  but  looked  the  girl  frankly  in  the  eyes. 

"  Pardon  me,  but  it  was  all  rather  sudden," 
he  explained.  The  red  had  left  his  face  now. 
"I've  only  known  a  few  women  —  and  they 
were  not  —  of  your  class.  This  is  Mr.  Burr's 
joke,  not  mine." 

The  smile  faded  from  the  girl's  face.     She 

[332] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

met  him  on  his  own  ground,  and  they  were 
friends. 

"Don't  take  it  that  way,"  she  protested, 
quickly.  "I  see,  he's  been  telling  you  of 
Washington's  Mary  Philipse.  It  merely  hap 
pens  that  my  name  is  the  same.  I  'm  simply  a 
friend  visiting  here.  Can't  I  show  you  the 
house  ?  It 's  rather  interesting." 

If  Ellis  was  a  novelty  to  the  woman,  she  was 
equally  so  to  him.  Unconventionality  reigned 
in  that  house,  and  they  were  together  an  hour. 
Never  before  in  his  life  had  Ellis  learned  so 
much,  nor  caught  so  many  glimpses  of  things 
beyond,  in  an  equal  length  of  time.  His  idea  of 
woman  had  been  trite,  a  little  vague.  He  had 
no  ideal;  he  had  simply  accepted,  without  ques 
tion,  the  one  specimen  he  had  known  well. 

In  an  uncertain  sort  of  way  he  had  thought 
of  the  sex  as  being  invariably  creatures  of  un 
questioned  virtue,  but  of  mind  somewhat  defec 
tive;  who  were  to  be  respected  and  protected, 
loved  perhaps  with  the  love  animals  know;  but 
of  such  an  one  as  this  he  had  no  conception. 

Here  was  a  woman,  younger  than  he,  whose 
unconscious  familiarity  with  things,  which  to 

[333] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

him  lay  hidden  in  the  dark  land  of  ignorance, 
affected  him  like  a  stimulant.  A  woman  who 
had  read  and  travelled  and  thought  and  felt; 
whose  mind  met  him  even  in  the  unhesitating 
confidence  of  knowledge  —  it  is  no  wonder  that 
he  was  in  a  dream.  It  turned  his  little  world 
upside  down:  so  brief  a  time  had  elapsed  since 
he  had  cursed  woman  for  bringing  crime  into 
his  life,  in  the  narrowness  of  his  ignorance 
thinking  them  all  alike.  He  was  in  the  presence 
of  a  superior,  and  his  own  smallness  came  over 
him  like  a  flood. 

He  mentally  swore,  then  and  there,  with  a 
tightening  of  his  jaw  that  meant  finality,  that 
he  would  raise  himself  to  her  plane.  The  girl 
saw  the  look,  and  wondered  at  it. 

That  night,  at  parting,  the  eyes  of  the  two 
met.  A  moment  passed  —  and  another,  and 
neither  spoke  a  word.  Then  a  smile  broke  over 
the  face  of  Mary  Philipse,  and  it  was  answered 
on  the  face  of  the  man.  Equals  had  met  equals. 
At  last  the  girl  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Call  again,  please,"  she  requested.  "  Good 
night." 

Years  passed.    Burr  had  gone  and  returned 

[334] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

again,  and  Jumel  mansion  had  waxed  festive  to 
honor  his  home-coming.  Then  he  opened  an 
office  in  the  city,  and  drab-colored  routine  fell 
upon  him  —  to  remain. 

Meanwhile  Time  had  done  much  for  Ellis  — 
rather,  it  had  allowed  him  to  do  much  for  him 
self.  He  had  passed  through  all  the  stages  of 
transition  —  confusion,  homesickness,  despond 
ency;  but  incentive  to  do  was  ever  with  him. 

At  first  he  had  worked  to  forget,  and  in  self- 
defence;  but  Nature  had  been  kind,  and  with 
years  memory  touched  him  softly,  as  though  it 
were  the  past  of  another. 

Then  a  new  incentive  came  to  him :  an  incen 
tive  more  potent  than  the  former,  and  which 
grew  so  slowly  he  did  not  recognize  it,  until  he 
met  it  unmistakably  face  to  face.  Again  into 
his  life  and  against  his  will  had  crept  a  woman, 
and  this  woman's  name  was  Mary  Philipse.  He 
met  her  now  on  her  own  ground,  but  still,  as  of 
old,  with  honors  even.  She  had  changed  little 
since  he  first  saw  her.  As  often  as  he  called, 
he  met  the  same  frank  smile,  and  the  brown  eyes 
still  regarded  him  with  the  same  old  candid,  un 
reserved  interest. 

f  3351 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Ellis  was,  as  the  town  would  have  said,  suc 
cessful.  He  had  risen  from  a  man-of -all-work 
to  the  State  bar,  and  an  office  of  his  own.  He 
had  passed  the  decisive  line  and  his  rise  was 
simply  a  question  of  time.  He  was  in  a  posi 
tion  where  he  could  do  as  he  chose.  He  appre 
ciated  that  Mary  Philipse  was  the  incentive  that 
had  put  him  where  he  was.  She  appealed  to  the 
best  there  was  in  his  nature.  She  caused  him  to 
do  better  work,  to  think  better  thoughts.  He 
unselfishly  wished  her  the  best  there  was  of  life. 
Just  how  much  more  he  felt  he  did  not  know — 
at  least  this  was  sufficient. 

He  would  ask  her  to  marry  him.  It  was  not 
the  mad,  dazzling  passion  of  which  poets  sing; 
but  he  was  wiser  than  of  yore.  Of  Mary  he  was 
uncertain.  That  he  was  not  the  only  man  who 
went  often  to  old  Jumel  mansion  he  was  well 
aware,  and  with  the  determination  to  learn 
certainties,  there  came  a  tenderer  regard  than 
he  had  yet  known. 

Jumel  was  gay  that  night.  There  would  be 
few  more  such  scenes,  for  the  owner  was  no 
longer  young;  but  of  this  the  throng  in  bro- 

[336] 


A  FRONTIER  ROMANCE 

cade  and  broadcloth  and  powder,  who  filled  the 
spacious  mansion,  were  thoughtless.  Every 
where  was  an  atmosphere  of  welcome ;  from  the 
steady  light  of  lanterns  festooned  on  facade  and 
lawn,  to  the  sparkle  of  countless  candles  within. 

It  was  that  night  that  Ellis  drew  Mary 
Philipse  aside  and  told  her  the  tale  that  grew 
passionate  in  the  telling.  Fortune  was  kind, 
for  he  told  it  to  the  soft  accompaniment  of 
wine  glasses  ringing,  and  the  slow  music  of  the 
stately  minuet. 

Mary  Philipse  heard  him  through  without  a 
word,  an  expression  on  her  face  he  had  never 
seen  before.  Then  their  eyes  met  in  the  same 
frank  way  they  had  hundreds  of  times  before, 
and  she  gave  him  her  answer. 

"I've  expected  this,  and  I've  tried  to  be 
ready;  but  I  'm  not.  I  can't  say  no,  and  I  can't 
say  yes.  I  would  n't  try  to  explain  to  any  one 
else,  but  I  think  you'll  understand.  Forgive 
me  if  I  analyze  you  a  little,  and  don't  interrupt, 
please." 

She  passed  her  hand  over  her  face  slowly,  a 
shade  wearily. 

"There  are  times  when  I  come  near  loving 

[  337  ] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

you:  for  what  you  are,  not  for  what  you  are  to 
me.  You  are  natural,  you  're  strong ;  but  you 
lack  something  I  feel  to  be  necessary  to  make 
life  completely  happy — the  ability  to  forget  all 
and  enjoy  the  moment.  I  have  watched  you 
for  years.  It  has  been  so  in  the  past,  and  will 
be  so  in  the  future.  Other  men  who  see  me, 
men  born  to  the  plane,  have  the  quality  —  call 
it  butterfly  if  you  will  —  to  enjoy  the  '  now.'  It 
appeals  to  me  —  I  am  of  their  manner  born." 
Their  eyes  met  and  she  finished  slowly,  "  It 's 
injustice  to  you,  I  know;  but  I  can't  answer — 


now." 


They  sat  a  moment  side  by  side  in  silence. 
The  dancers  were  moving  more  swiftly  to  the 
sound  of  the  Virginia  reel. 

Ellis  reached  over  and  took  her  hand,  then 
bent  and  touched  it  softly  with  his  lips. 

"I  will  wait — and  abide,"  he  said. 


[  338  ] 


THE  CUP  THAT  OVERFLOWED 

AN  OUTLINE 
I 

IN  a  room,  half -lighted  by  the  red  rays  of  a 
harvest  moon,  a  woman  lay  in  the  shadow; 
face  downward,  on  the  bed.  It  was  not  the 
figure  of  youth :  the  full  lines  of  waist  and  hip 
spoke  maturity.  She  was  sobbing  aloud  and 
bitterly,  so  that  her  whole  body  trembled. 

The  clock  struck  the  hour,  the  half,  again  the 
hour ;  and  yet  she  lay  there,  but  quiet,  with  face 
turned  toward  the  window  and  the  big,  red 
harvest  moon.  It  was  not  a  handsome  face; 
besides,  now  it  was  tear-stained  and  hard  with 
the  reflection  of  a  bitter  battle  fought. 

A  light  foot  tapped  down  the  hallway  and 
stopped  in  front  of  the  door.  There  was  gentle 
accompaniment  on  the  panel  to  the  query,  "  Are 
you  asleep  ? " 

[839] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

The  woman  on  the  bed  opened  her  eyes  wider, 
without  a  word. 

The  step  in  the  hall  tapped  away  into  silence. 
The  firm,  round  arm  in  its  black  elbow-sleeve 
setting,  white,  beautiful,  made  a  motion  of  im 
patience  and  of  weariness;  then  slowly,  so 
slowly  that  one  could  scarce  mark  its  coming, 
the  blank  stupor  that  comes  as  Nature's  panacea 
to  those  whom  she  has  tortured  to  the  limit, 
crept  over  the  woman,  and  the  big  brown  eyes 
closed.  The  moon  passed  over  and  the  night- 
wind,  murmuring  lower  and  lower,  became  still. 
In  the  darkness  and  silence  the  woman  sobbed 
as  she  slept. 

In  the  lonely,  uncertain  time  between  night 
and  morning  she  awoke ;  her  face  and  the  pillow 
were  damp  with  the  tears  of  sleep.  She  was 
numb  from  the  drawing  of  tight  clothing,  and 
with  a  great  mental  pain  and  a  confused  sense 
of  sadness,  that  weighed  on  her  like  a  tangible 
thing.  Her  mind  groped  uncertainly  for  a 
moment ;  then,  with  a  great  rush,  the  past  night 
and  the  things  before  it  returned  to  her. 

"  Oh,  God,  Thy  injustice  to  us  women  ! "  she 
moaned. 

[340] 


CUP   THAT   OVERFLOWED 

The  words  roused  her ;  and,  craving  compan 
ionship,  she  rose  and  lit  the  gas. 

Back  and  forth  she  crossed  the  room,  avoid 
ing  the  furniture  as  by  instinct  —  one  moment 
smiling,  bitter;  the  next  with  face  moving,  un 
controllable,  and  eyes  damp :  all  the  moods,  the 
passions  of  a  woman's  soul  showing  here  where 
none  other  might  see.  Tired  out,  at  last,  she 
stopped  and  disrobed,  swiftly,  without  a  glance 
at  her  own  reflection,  and  returned  to  bed. 

Nature  will  not  be  forced.  Sleep  will  not 
come  again.  She  can  only  think,  and  thoughts 
are  madness.  She  gets  up  and  moves  to  her 
desk.  Aimlessly  at  first,  as  a  respite,  she  begins 
to  write.  Her  thoughts  take  words  as  she 
writes,  and  a  great  determination,  an  impulse  of 
the  moment,  comes  to  her.  She  takes  up  fresh 
paper  and  writes  sheet  after  sheet,  swiftly. 
Passion  sways  the  hand  that  writes,  and  shines 
warmly  from  the  big,  brown  eyes.  The  first 
light  of  morning  stains  the  east  as  she  collects 
the  scattered  sheets,  and  writes  a  name  on  the 
envelope,  a  name  which  brings  a  tenderness  to 
her  eyes.  Stealthily  she  tiptoes  down  the  stairs 
and  places  the  letter  where  the  servant  will  see, 

[341]        • 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

and  mail  it  in  the  early  morning.  A  glad  light, 
the  light  of  relief,  is  in  her  face  as  she  steals 
back  slowly  and  creeps  into  bed. 

"If  it  is  wrong  I  couldn't  help  it,"  she 
whispers  low.  She  turns  her  face  to  the  pillow 
and  covers  it  with  a  soft,  white  arm.  One  ear 
alone  shows,  a  rosy  spot  against  the  white. 

II 

Nine  o'clock  at  a  down-town  medical  office. 
A  man  who  walks  rapidly,  but  quietly,  enters 
and  takes  up  the  morning  mail.  A  number  of 
business  letters  he  finds  and  a  dainty  envelope, 
with  writing  which  he  knows  at  sight.  He  steps 
to  the  light  and  looks  at  the  postmark. 

"  Good-morning,"  says  his  partner,  entering. 

The  man  nods  absently,  and,  tearing  open 
the  envelope,  takes  out  this  letter: 

"My  FRIEND:  — 

"I  don't  know  what  you  will  think  of  me 
after  this;  anyway,  I  cannot  help  telling  you 
what  to-night  lies  heavy  on  my  heart  and  mind. 
I  've  tried  to  keep  still;  God  knows  I  Ve  tried, 
and  so  hard;  but  Nature  is  Nature,  and  I  am  a 

[3421 


CUP   THAT   O'ERFLOWED 

woman.  Oh,  if  you  men  only  knew  what  that 
means,  you  'd  forgive  us  much,  and  pity  !  You 
have  so  much  in  life  and  we  so  little,  and  you 
torture  us  so  with  that  little,  which  to  us  is  so 
great,  our  all;  leading  us  on  against  our  will, 
against  our  better  judgment,  until  we  love  you, 
not  realizing  at  first  the  madness  of  unrequited 
love.  Oh,  the  cruelty  of  it,  and  but  for  a 
pastime. 

"  But  I  do  not  mean  to  charge  you.  You  are 
not  as  other  men ;  you  are  not  wrong.  Besides, 
why  should  I  not  say  it  ?  I  love  you.  Yes,  you ; 
a  man  who  knows  not  the  meaning  of  the  word ; 
who  meant  to  be  but  a  friend,  my  best  friend. 
Oh,  you  have  been  blind,  blind  all  the  years 
since  first  I  knew  you;  since  first  you  began 
telling  me  of  yourself  and  of  your  hopes.  You 
did  not  know  what  it  meant  to  such  as  I  to  live 
in  the  ambition  of  another,  to  hope  through 
another's  hope,  to  exult  in  another's  success.  I 
am  confessing,  for  the  first  time  —  and  the  last 
time.  Know,  man,  all  the  time  I  loved  you. 
Forgive  me  that  I  tell  you.  I  cannot  help  it.  I 
am  a  woman,  and  love  in  a  woman's  life  is 

[343] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

stronger  than  will,  stronger  than  all  else 
together. 

"  I  ask  nothing.  I  expect  nothing.  I  could 
not  keep  quiet  longer.  It  was  killing  me,  and 
you  never  saw.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  any 
thing,  till  this  moment  —  least  of  all,  in  this 
way.  But  it  is  done,  and  I  'm  glad  —  yes,  hap 
pier  than  I  have  been  for  weeks.  It  is  our 
woman's  nature;  a  nature  we  do  not  ourselves 
understand. 

"  My  friend,  I  cannot  see  you  again.  Things 
cannot  go  on  as  they  were.  It  was  torture  — 
you  know  not  what  torture  —  and  life  is  short. 
If  you  would  be  kind,  avoid  me.  The  town  is 
wide,  and  we  have  each  our  work.  Time  will 
pass.  Remember,  you  have  done  nothing 
wrong.  If  there  be  one  at  fault  it  is  Nature, 
for  only  half  doing  her  work.  You  are  good 
and  noble.  Good-bye.  I  trust  you,  for,  God 
bless  you,  I  love  you." 

The  letter  dropped,  and  the  man  stood  look 
ing  out  with  unseeing  eyes,  on  the  shifting 
street. 

A  patient  came  in  and  sat  down,  waiting. 

He  had  read  as  in  a  dream.    Now  with  a  rush 

[344.] 


CUP   THAT   O'ERFLOWED 

came  thought,  —  the  past,  the  present,  mingled; 
and  as  by  a  great  light  he  saw  clearly  the  years 
of  comradery,  thoughtless  on  his  part,  filled  as 
his  life  had  been  with  work  and  with  thought  of 
the  future.  It  all  came  home  to  him  now,  and 
the  coming  was  of  brightness.  The  coldness 
melted  from  his  face ;  the  very  squareness  of  the 
jaw  seemed  softer;  the  knowledge  that  is  joy 
and  that  comes  but  once  in  a  lifetime,  swept 
over  him,  warm,  and  his  heart  beat  swift.  All 
things  seemed  beautiful. 

Without  a  word  he  took  up  his  hat,  and 
walked  rapidly  toward  the  elevator.  A  smile 
was  in  the  frank  blue  eyes,  and  to  all  whom  he 
met,  whether  stranger  or  friend,  he  gave 
greeting. 

The  patient,  waiting  for  his  return,  grew 
tired  and  left,  and  leaving,  slammed  the  office 
door  behind  him. 


[14,5] 


UNJUDGED 

rilHE  source  of  this  manuscript  lies  in 
•*  tragedy.  My  possession  of  it  is  purely 
adventitious.  That  I  have  had  it  long  you  may 
know,  for  it  came  to  me  at  an  inland  prairie 
town,  far  removed  from  water  or  mountain, 
while  for  ten  years  or  more  my  name,  above  the 
big-lettered  dentist  sign,  has  stood  here  on  my 
office  window  in  this  city  by  the  lake.  I  have 
waited,  hoping  some  one  would  come  as  claim 
ant  ;  but  my  hair  is  turning  white  and  I  can  wait 
no  longer.  As  now  I  write  of  the  past,  the  time 
of  the  manuscript's  coming  stands  clear  amid 
a  host  of  hazy,  half -forgotten  things. 

It  was  after  regular  hours,  of  the  day  I  write, 
that  a  man  came  hurriedly  into  my  office,  com 
plaining  of  a  fiercely  aching  tooth.  Against 
my  advice  he  insisted  on  an  immediate  extrac 
tion,  and  the  use  of  an  anaesthetic.  I  telephoned 
for  a  physician,  and  while  awaiting  his  coming 
my  patient  placed  in  my  keeping  an  expansible 
leather-covered  book  of  a  large  pocket  size. 

[347] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  Should  anything  go  wrong,"  he  said,  "  there 
are  instructions  inside." 

The  request  is  common  from  those  unused  to 
an  operation,  and  I  accepted  without  other  com 
ment  than  to  assure  him  he  need  fear  no  danger. 

Upon  arriving,  the  physician  made  the  cus 
tomary  examination  and  proceeded  to  admin 
ister  chloroform.  The  patient  was  visibly  ex 
cited,  but  neither  of  us  attached  any  importance 
to  that  under  the  circumstances.  Almost  before 
the  effect  of  the  anaesthetic  was  noticeable,  how 
ever,  there  began  a  series  of  violent  muscular 
spasms  and  contractions.  The  inhaler  was  re 
moved  and  all  restoratives  known  to  the  pro 
fession  used,  but  without  avail.  He  died  in  a 
few  moments,  and  without  regaining  conscious 
ness.  The  symptoms  wrere  suspicious,  entirely 
foreign  to  any  caused  by  the  anesthetic,  and  at 
the  inquest  the  cause  came  to  light.  In  the 
man's  stomach  was  a  large  quantity  of  strych 
nine.  That  he  knew  something  of  medicine  is 
certain,  for  the  action  of  the  alkaloid  varies 
little,  and  he  had  the  timing  to  a  nicety. 

The  man  was,  I  should  judge,  thirty  years 
of  age,  smooth  of  face  and  slightly  built.  Nerve 

[348] 


UNJUDGED 

was  in  every  line  of  face  and  body.  He  was 
faultlessly  dressed  and  perfectly  groomed.  He 
wore  no  jewelry,  not  even  a  watch;  but  within 
the  pocket  of  his  vest  was  found  a  small  jewel- 
case  containing  two  beautiful  white  diamonds, 
each  of  more  than  a  carat  weight.  One  was 
unset,  the  other  mounted  in  a  lady's  ring.  There 
was  money  in  plenty  upon  his  person,  but  not 
an  article  that  would  give  the  slightest  clue  to 
his  identity. 

One  peculiar  thing  about  him  I  noticed,  and 
could  not  account  for:  upon  the  palm  of  each 
hand  was  a  row  of  irregular  abrasions,  but 
slightly  healed,  and  which  looked  as  though 
made  by  some  dull  instrument. 

The  book  with  which  he  entrusted  me  had 
begun  as  a  journal,  but  with  the  passage  of 
events  it  had  outgrown  its  original  plan.  Be 
ing  expansible,  fresh  sheets  had  been  added  as 
it  grew,  and  at  the  back  of  the  book,  on  one  of 
these  blanks,  had  been  hastily  scratched,  in 
pencil,  the  message  of  which  he  spoke: 

'  You  will  find  sufficient  money  in  my  pock 
ets  to  cover  all  expenses.  Do  not  take  my 
trinkets,  please  !  Associations  make  them  dear 

[349] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

to  me.  Any  attempt  to  discover  my  friends 
will  be  useless." 

Notwithstanding  the  last  sentence  the  body 
was  embalmed  and  the  death  advertised ;  but  no 
response  came,  and  after  three  days  the  body 
and  the  tokens  he  loved  were  quietly  buried  here 
in  the  city. 

Meantime  I  had  read  the  book,  beginning 
from  a  sense  of  duty  that  grew  into  a  passing 
interest,  and  ended  by  making  me  unaware  of 
both  time  and  place.  I  give  you  the  journal 
as  it  stands,  word  for  word  and  date  for  date. 
Would  that  I  could  show  you  the  hand-writing 
in  the  original  as  well.  No  printed  page  can 
tell  the  story  of  mood  as  can  the  lines  of  this 
journal.  There  were  moments  of  passion  when 
words  slurred  and  overtook  each  other,  as 
thought  moved  more  rapidly  than  the  characters 
which  recorded;  and  again,  periods  of  uncer 
tainty  when  the  hand  tarried  and  busied  itself 
with  forming  meaningless  figures,  while  the 
conscious  mind  roamed  far  away. 

March  17.  Why  do  I  begin  a  journal  now, 
a  thing  I  have  never  done  before?  Had  another 

[850] 


UNJUDGED 

asked  the  question,  I  could  have  turned  it  off 
with  a  laugh,  but  with  myself  it  will  not  do.  I 
must  answer  it,  and  honestly.  Know  then,  my 
ego  who  catechises,  I  have  things  to  tell,  feelings 
to  describe  that  are  new  to  me  and  which  I  can 
not  tell  to  another.  The  excuse  sounds  childish ; 
but  listen :  I  speak  it  softly :  I  love,  and  he  who 
loves  is  ever  as  a  child.  I  smile  at  myself  for 
making  the  admission.  I,  a  man  whose  hair  is 
thinning  and  silvering,  who  has  written  of  love 
all  his  life,  and  laughed  at  it.  Oh,  it 's  humor 
ous,  deliciously  humorous.  To  think  that  I  have 
become,  in  reality,  the  fool  I  pictured  others  in 
fancy  ! 

April  2.  Gods,  she  was  beautiful  to-night ! 
— the  way  she  came  to  meet  me:  the  long  skirt 
that  hung  so  gracefully,  and  that  fluffy,  white, 
sleeveless  thing  that  fitted  her  so  perfectly  and 
showed  her  white  arms  and  the  curves  of  her 
throat.  I  forgot  to  rise,  and  I  fear  I  stared 
at  her.  I  can  yet  see  the  smile  that  crept 
through  the  long  lashes  as  she  looked  at  me,  and 
as  I  stumbled  an  apology  she  was  smiling  all 
the  time.  How  I  came  away  I  swear  I  don't 
know.  Instinct,  I  suppose;  for  now  at  last  I 

[351] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

have  an  incentive.  I  must  work  mightily,  and 
earn  a  name — for  her. 

April  4.  He  says  it  is  a  strong  plot  and  that 
he  will  help  me.  That  means  the  book  will  suc 
ceed.  I  wonder  how  a  man  feels  who  can  do 
things,  not  merely  dream  them.  I  expected  he 
would  laugh  when  I  told  him  the  plot,  espe 
cially  when  I  told  whom  the  woman  was;  but 
he  did  n't  say  a  word.  He  thinks,  as  I  do,  that 
it  would  be  better  to  leave  the  story's  connec 
tion  with  her  a  surprise  until  the  book  is  pub 
lished.  He  is  coming  up  here  to  work  to 
morrow.  "Keep  a  plot  warm,"  he  says: 
"  especially  one  with  a  love  in  it."  He  looked  at 
me  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  as  he  spoke,  so 
peculiarly  I  hardly  knew  whether  he  was  laugh 
ing  at  me  or  not.  I  suppose,  just  now,  my 
state  of  mind  is  rather  obvious  and  amusing. 

May  3.  As  I  expected,  the  reaction  is  on. 
What  a  price  we  have  to  pay  for  our  happy 
moments  in  this  world  !  I  'm  tired  to-night  and 
a  little  discouraged,  for  I  worked  hard  all  day, 
and  did  not  accomplish  much.  "  Lack  of  inspir 
ation,"  he  said.  "The  heroine  is  becoming  a 

[352] 


UNJUDGED 

trifle  dim.  Had  n't  you  better  go  and  enthuse  a 
little  to-night?" 

I  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be  chaffed ;  I  told  him 
shortly:  "  No,  you  had  better  go  yourself." 

He  smiled  and  thanked  me.  "With  your 
permission,"  he  said,  "  I  will." 

Nature  certainly  has  been  kind  to  him,  for 
he  is  handsome  and  fascinating  beyond  any  man 
I  ever  knew.  I  wanted  to  use  him  in  the  story, 
but  he  positively  refused.  He  said  that  I  would 
do  better.  So  we  finally  compromised  on  a 
combination.  "  The  man  "  has  his  hair  and  my 
eyes,  his  nose  and  my  mouth.  Over  the  chin  we 
each  smiled  a  little  grimly,  for  it  is  stubborn  — 
square,  and  fits  us  both.  After  all,  it  is  not  a 
bad  ensemble.  The  character  has  his  weak 
points,  but,  all  in  all,  he  is  not  bad  to  look  upon. 

June  10.  We  went  driving  this  evening,  she 
and  I,  far  out  into  the  country,  going  and  com 
ing  slowly.  The  night  was  perfect,  with  a 
full  moon  and  a  soft  south  wind.  Nature's 
music  makers  were  all  busy.  On  the  high 
places,  the  crickets  sang  loudly  their  lonesome 
song  to  the  night,  while  from  the  distant  river 

[353] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

and  lowlands  there  came  the  uncertain  minor 
of  countless  frogs  in  chorus. 

For  two  hours  I  tasted  happiness,  divine 
happiness,  happiness  so  complete  that  I  forgot 
time. 

I  have  known  many  beautiful  women, 
women  splendid  as  animals  are  splendid,  but 
never  before  one  whose  intense  womanliness 
made  me  forget  that  she  was  beautiful.  I  can't 
explain;  it  is  too  subtle  and  holy  a  thing.  I 
sat  by  her  side,  so  near  that  we  touched,  and 
worshipped  as  I  never  worshipped  at  church.  If 
but  for  this  night  alone,  my  life  is  worth  the 
living. 

June  12.  It  seems  peculiar  that  he  should  be 
working  with  me  at  this  story;  strange  that  he 
should  care  to  know  me  at  all.  Perhaps  I  stand 
a  little  in  awe  of  the  successful  man ;  I  think  we 
all  do.  At  least,  he  is  the  example  par  excel 
lence.  I  have  seen  him  go  into  a  room  filled 
with  total  strangers,  and  though  he  never  spoke 
a  word,  have  heard  the  question  all  about, — 
"  Who  is  he  ?  "  Years  ago,  when  he  as  well  as  I 
was  an  unknown  writer,  we  each  submitted  a 
story  to  the  same  editor,  by  the  same  mail.  Both 

[354] 


UNJUDGED 

were  returned.  I  can  still  see  the  expression  on 
his  face  as  he  opened  his  envelope,  and  thrust 
the  manuscript  into  his  pocket.  He  did  not 
say  a  word,  but  his  manner  of  donning  his  top 
coat  and  hat,  and  the  crash  of  the  front  door 
behind  him  betrayed  his  disappointment.  His 
work  was  afterwards  published  at  his  own  risk. 
The  ink  on  my  story  is  fading,  but  I  have  it 
stiU. 

July  2.  She  is  going  to  the  coast  for  the 
season,  and  I  called  to-night  to  say  au  revoir. 
I  could  see  her  only  a  few  minutes  as  her  car 
riage  was  already  waiting ;  something,  I  believe, 
in  honor  of  her  last  night  in  town.  She  was  in 
evening  dress,  and  beautiful  —  I  cannot  de 
scribe.  Think  of  the  most  beautiful  woman  you 
have  ever  known,  and  then — but  it  is  useless, 
for  you  have  not  known  her. 

I  was  intoxicated ;  happy  as  a  boy ;  happy  as 
a  god.  I  filled  the  few  moments  I  had,  full  to 
overflowing.  I  told  her  what  every  man  tells 
some  woman  some  time  in  his  life.  For  once  I 
felt  the  power  of  a  master,  and  I  spoke  well. 

She  did  not  answer;  I  asked  her  not  to.  I 
could  not  tell  her  all,  and  I  would  have  no  re- 

[355] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

ply  before.  Her  face  was  turned  from  me  as 
I  spoke,  but  her  ears  turned  pink  and  her 
breath  came  quickly.  I  looked  at  her  and  the 
magnitude  of  my  presumption  held  me  dumb; 
yet  a  warm  happy  glow  was  upon  me,  and  the 
tapping  of  feet  on  the  pavement  below  sounded 
as  sweetest  music. 

As  I  watched  her  she  turned,  her  eyes  glisten 
ing  and  her  throat  all  a-tremble.  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  say  good-bye.  I  took  it  in  mine; 
and  at  the  touch  my  resolution  and  all  other 
things  of  earth  were  forgotten,  and  I  did  that 
which  I  had  come  hoping  to  do.  Gently,  I 
slipped  a  ring  with  a  single  setting  over  her 
finger,  then  bending  low,  I  touched  the  hand 
with  my  lips — whitest,  softest,  dearest  hand 
in  God's  world.  Then  I  heard  her  breath 
break  in  a  sob,  and  felt  upon  my  hair  the  fall 
ing  of  a  tear. 

August  5.  I  am  homesick  to-night  and  tired. 
It  is  ten-thirty,  and,  I  have  just  gotten  dinner. 
I  forgot  all  about  it  before.  The  story  is  mov 
ing  swiftly.  It  is  nearly  finished  now,  more 
over  it  is  good;  I  know  it.  I  sent  a  big  roll  of 
manuscript  to  him  to-day.  He  is  at  the  coast, 

[356] 


UNJUDGED 

and  polishes  the  rough  draft  as  fast  as  I  send 
it  in.  He  tells  me  he  has  secured  a  publisher, 
and  that  the  book  will  be  out  in  a  few  months. 
I  can  hardly  wait  to  finish,  for  then  I,  too,  can 
leave  town.  I  will  not  go  before ;  I  have  work 
to  do,  and  can  do  it  better  here.  He  tells  me 
he  has  seen  her  several  times.  God  !  a  man  who 
writes  novels  and  can  mention  her  incidentally, 
as  though  speaking  of  a  dinner-party ! 

August  30.  I  finished  to-day  and  expressed 
him  the  last  scrap  of  copy.  I  wanted  to  sing,  I 
was  so  happy.  Then  I  bethought  me,  it  is  her 
birthday.  I  went  down  town  and  picked  out 
a  stone  that  pleased  me.  Their  messenger  will 
deliver  it,  and  she  can  choose  her  own  setting. 
How  I  'd  like  to  carry  it  myself,  but  I  have  a 
little  more  work  to  do  before  I  go.  Only  two 
more  days,  and  then — 

I  have  been  counting  the  time  since  she  left: 
almost  two  months;  it  seems  incredible  when  I 
think  of  it 

How  I  have  worked !  Next  time  I  write, 
my  journal  confessor,  I  will  have  something  to 
tell:  I  will  have  seen  her — she  who  wears  my 

ring Ah!  here  comes  my  man  for 

[S57] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

orders.  A  few  of  my  bachelor  friends  help  me 
celebrate  here  to-night.  I  have  not  told  them 
it  is  the  last  time. 

September  5.  Let  me  think;  I  am  confused. 
This  hotel  is  vile,  abominable,  but  there  is  no 
other.  That  cursed  odor  of  stale  tobacco,  and 
of  cookery  ! 

The  landlord  says  they  were  here  yesterday 
and  went  West.  It's  easy  to  trace  them  — 
everybody  notices.  A  tall  man,  dark,  with  a 
firm  jaw;  the  most  beautiful  woman  they  have 
ever  seen  —  they  all  say  the  same.  My  God  ! 
and  I  'm  hung  up  here,  inactive  a  whole  day  ! 
But  I  '11  find  them,  they  can't  escape;  and  then 
they  '11  laugh  at  me,  probably. 

What  can  I  do  ?  I  don't  know.  I  can't 
think.  I  must  find  them  first  ....  that 
cursed  odor  again  ! 

Oh,  what  a  child,  a  worse  than  fool  I  have 
been  !  To  sit  there  in  town  pouring  the  best 
work  of  my  life  into  his  hands  !  I  must  have 
that  book,  I  will  have  it.  To  think  how  I 
trusted  her — waited  until  my  hair  began  to 
turn  —  for  this  ! 

[358] 


UNJUDGED 

But  I  must  stop.  This  is  useless,  it's  mad 
ness. 

September  9.  It  is  a  beautiful  night.  I  have 
just  come  in  from  a  long  walk,  how  long  I 
don't  know.  I  went  to  the  suburbs  and  through 
the  parks,  watching  the  young  people  sitting, 
two  and  two,  in  the  shadow.  I  smiled  at  the 
sight,  for  in  fancy  I  could  hear  what  they  were 
saying.  Then  I  wandered  over  to  the  lake- 
front  and  stood  a  long  time,  with  the  waves 
lapping  musically  against  the  rocks  below,  and 
the  moonlight  glistening  on  a  million  reflectors. 
The  great  stretch  of  water  in  front,  and  the 
great  city  behind  me  sang  low  in  concord,  while 
the  stars  looked  down  smiling  at  the  refrain. 
"Be  calm,  little  mortal,  be  calm,"  they  said; 
"  calm,  tiny  mortal,  calm,"  repeated  endlessly, 
until  the  mood  took  hold  of  me,  and  in  sympa 
thy  I  smiled  in  return. 

Was  it  yesterday  ?  It  seems  a  month  since 
I  found  them.  Was  it  I  who  was  so  hot  and 
angry  ?  I  hold  up  my  hand;  it  is  as  steady  as 
my  mother's  when,  years  ago,  as  a  boy,  she 
laid  it  on  my  forehead  with  her  good-night. 
The  murmur  of  this  big  hotel  speaks  soothingly, 

[359] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

like  the  voice  of  an  old  friend.  The  purr  of  the 
elevator  is  a  voice  I  know.  It  all  seems  incred 
ible.  To-day  is  so  commonplace  and  real,  and 
yesterday  so  remote  and  fantastic. 

He  was  lounging  in  the  lobby,  a  hand  in 
either  pocket,  when  I  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  turned,  but  neither  hands  nor 
face  failed  him  by  a  motion. 

"I  presume  you  would  prefer  to  talk  in 
private?"  I  said,  "Will  you  come  to  my 
room?" 

A  smile  formed  slowly  over  his  lips. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  deprive  my — "  He  paused, 
and  his  eyes  met  mine,  "  —  my  wife  of  a  pleas 
ant  chat  with  an  old  friend.  I  would  suggest 
that  you  come  with  us  to  our  suite." 

I  nodded.  In  silence  we  went  up  the  ele 
vator;  in  equal  silence,  he  leading,  we  passed 
along  the  corridor  over  carpets  that  gave  out  no 
telltale  sound. 

She  was  standing  by  the  window  when  we 
entered.  Her  profile  stood  out  clear  in  the 
shaded  room,  and  in  spite  of  myself  a  great 
heart-throb  passed  over  me.  She  did  not  move 
at  first,  but  at  last  turning  she  saw  him  and  me. 

[360] 


UNJUDGED 

Then  I  could  see  her  tremble;  she  started 
quickly  to  leave,  but  he  barred  the  way.  The 
smile  was  still  upon  his  face. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  he  protested,  "  but 
certainly  you  recognize  an  old  friend." 

She  grew  white  to  the  lips,  and  her  eyes 
blazed.  Her  hands  pressed  together  so  tightly 
that  the  fingers  became  blue  at  the  nails.  She 
looked  at  him;  such  scorn  I  had  never  seen 
before.  Before  it,  the  smile  slowly  left  his  face. 

"  Were  you  the  fraction  of  a  man,"  she  voiced 
slowly,  icily,  "you  would  have  stopped  short 
of— this." 

She  made  a  motion  of  her  hand,  so  slight  one 
could  scarce  see  it,  and  without  a  word  he 
stepped  aside.  She  turned  toward  me  and,  in 
stinctively,  I  bent  in  courtesy,  my  eyes  on  the 
floor  and  a  great  tumult  in  my  heart.  She  hesi 
tated  at  passing  me ;  without  looking  up  I  knew 
it;  then,  slowly,  moved  away  down  the  cor 
ridor. 

I  advanced  inside,  closing  the  door  behind  me 
and  snapping  the  lock.  Neither  of  us  said  a 
word ;  no  word  was  needed.  The  fighting-blood 
of  each  was  up,  and  on  each  the  square  jaw  that 

[361] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

marked  us  both  was  set  hard.  I  stepped  up 
within  a  yard  of  him  and  looked  him  square  in 
the  eye.  I  pray  God  I  may  never  be  so  angry 
again. 

"  What  explanation  have  you  to  offer  ? "  I 
asked. 

His  eye  never  wavered,  though  the  blood  left 
his  face  and  lip ;  even  then  I  admired  his  nerve. 
When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  even  and  natural. 

"Nothing,"  he  sneered.  "You  have  lost; 
that 'sail." 

Quick  as  thought/ 1  threw  back  the  taunt. 

"  Lost  the  woman,  yes,  thank  God;  the  book, 
never.  I  came  for  that,  not  for  her.  I  demand 
that  you  turn  over  the  copy." 

Again  the  cool  smile  and  the  steady  voice. 

"You're  a  trifle  late.  I  haven't  a  sheet;  it 
is  all  gone." 

"  You  lie  ! "  I  flung  the  hot  words  fair  in 
his  teeth. 

A  smile,  mocking,  maddening,  formed  upon 
his  face. 

"I  told  you  before  you  had  lost.  The  book 
is  copyrighted"  —  a  pause,  while  the  smile 

[362] 


UNJUDGED 

broadened  —  "copyrighted  in  my  name,  and 
sold." 

The  instinct  of  battle,  primitive,  uncontrol 
lable,  came  over  me  and  the  room  turned  dark. 
I  fought  it,  until  my  hands  grew  greasy  from 
the  wounds  where  the  nails  bit  my  palms,  then 
I  lost  control ;  of  what  follows  all  is  confused. 

I  dimly  see  myself  leaping  at  him  like  a  wild 
animal;  I  feel  the  tightening  of  the  big  neck 
muscles  as  my  fingers  closed  on  his  throat;  I 
feel  a  soft  breath  of  night  air  as  we  neared  the 
open  window ;  then  in  my  hands  a  sudden  light 
ness,  and  in  my  ears  a  cry  of  terror. 

I  awoke  at  a  pounding  on  the  door.  It 
seemed  hours  later,  though  it  must  have  been 
but  seconds.  I  arose  —  and  was  alone.  The 
window  was  wide  open;  in  the  street  below, 
a  crowd  was  gathering  on  the  run,  while  a  po 
liceman's  shrill  whistle  rang  out  on  the  night. 
A  hundred  faces  were  turned  toward  me  as  I 
looked  down  and  I  dimly  wondered  thereat. 

The  knocking  on  the  door  became  more  in 
sistent.  I  turned  the  lock,  slowly,  and  a  woman 
rushed  into  the  room.  Something  about  her 

[  363  ] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

seemed  familiar  to  me.  I  passed  my  hand  over 
my  forehead — but  it  was  useless.  I  bowed 
low  and  started  to  walk  out,  but  she  seized  me 
by  the  arm,  calling  my  name,  pleadingly.  Her 
soft  brown  hair  was  all  loose  and  hanging, 
and  her  big  eyes  swimming;  her  whole  body 
trembled  so  that  she  could  scarcely  speak. 

The  grip  of  the  white  hand  on  my  arm 
tightened. 

"Oh !  You  must  not  go,"  she  cried;  "you 
cannot." 

I  tried  gently  to  shake  her  off,  but  she  clung 
more  closely  than  before. 

"  You  must  let  me  explain,"  she  wailed.  "  I 
call  God  to  witness,  I  was  not  to  blame."  She 
drew  a  case  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 

"  Here  are  those  stones;  I  never  wore  them. 
I  wanted  to,  God  knows,  but  I  couldn't.  Take 
them,  I  beg  of  you."  She  thrust  the  case  into 
my  pocket.  "He  made  me  take  them,  you 
understand;  made  me  do  everything  from  the 
first.  I  loved  him  once,  long  ago,  and  since 
then  I  couldn't  get  away.  I  can't  explain." 
She  was  pleading  as  I  never  heard  woman  plead 

[  364  ] 


UNJUDGED 

before.  "Forgive  me — tell  me  you  forgive 
me  —  speak  to  me."  The  grip  on  my  arm  loos 
ened  and  her  voice  dropped. 

"  Oh  !  God,  to  have  brought  this  on  you  when 
I  loved  you  !" 

The  words  sounded  in  my  ears,  but  made  no 
impression.  It  all  seemed  very,  very  strange. 
Why  should  she  say  such  things  to  me  ?  She 
must  be  mistaken — must  take  me  for  another. 

I  broke  away  from  her  grasp,  and  groped 
staggeringly  toward  the  door.  A  weariness  in 
tense  was  upon  me  and  I  wanted  to  be  home 
alone.  As  I  moved  away,  I  heard  behind  me 
a  swift  step  as  though  she  would  follow,  and  my 
name  called  softly,  then  another  movement, 
away. 

Mechanically  I  turned  at  the  sound,  and  saw 
her  profile  standing  clear  in  the  open  window- 
frame.  Realization  came  to  me  with  a  mighty 
rush,  and  with  a  cry  that  was  a  great  sob  I 
sprang  toward  her. 

Suddenly  the  window  became  clear  again, 
and  through  the  blackness  that  formed  about 

[365] 


A  BREATH   OF   PRAIRIE 

me  I  dimly  heard  a  great  wail  of  horror  arise 
from  the  street  below. 

There  was  no  other  entry  save  the  hasty 
scrawl  in  pencil. 


[366] 


THE  TOUCH  HUMAN 

OOD-NIGHT."  A  lingering  of  finger 
tips  that  touched,  as  by  accident ;  a  bared 
head ;  the  regular  tap  of  shoes  on  cement,  as  a 
man  walked  down  the  path. 

"Good-night  —  and  God  bless  thee,"  he  re 
peated  softly,  tenderly,  under  his  breath,  that 
none  but  he  might  hear:  words  of  faith  spoken 
reverently,  and  by  one  who  believes  not  in  the 
God  known  of  the  herd. 

"Good-night  —  and  God  bless  thee,"  whis 
pered  the  woman  slowly;  and  the  south  wind, 
murmuring  northward,  took  the  words  and 
carried  them  gently  away  as  sacred  things. 

The  woman  stood  thinking,  dreaming,  her 
color  mounting,  her  eyes  dimming,  as  she  read 
deep  the  mystery  of  her  own  heart. 

They  had  sat  side  by  side  the  entire  evening, 
and  had  talked  of  life  and  of  its  hidden  things ; 
or  else  had  remained  silent  in  the  unspoken  con 
verse  that  is  even  sweeter  to  those  who  under 
stand  each  other. 

[367] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

She  had  said  of  a  mutual  friend:  "  He  is  a 
man  I  admire ;  he  has  an  ideal." 

"  A  thing  but  few  of  earth  possess." 

"No;  I  think  you  are  wrong.  I  believe  all 
people  have  ideals.  They  must ;  life  would  not 
be  life  without." 

"  You  mean  object  rather  than  ideal.  Does 
not  an  ideal  mean  something  beautiful — some 
thing  beyond  —  something  we'd  give  our  all 
for  ?  Not  our  working  hours  alone,  but  our 
hours  of  pleasure  and  our  times  of  thought.  An 
ideal  is  an  intangible  thing  —  having  much  of 
the  supernatural  in  its  make-up ;  't  is  a  fetish  for 
which  we  'd  sacrifice  life  —  or  the  strongest  pas 
sion  of  life, —  love." 

"  Is  this  an  ideal,  though  ?  Could  anything 
be  beautiful  to  us  after  we  }d  sacrificed  much  of 
life,  and  all  of  love  in  its  attainment  ?  Is  not 
everything  that  is  opposed  to  love  also  opposed 
to  the  ideal  ?  Is  not  an  ideal,  when  all  is  told, 
nothing  but  a  great  love — the  great  personal 
love  of  each  individual  ?  " 

He  turned  to  the  woman,  and  there  was  that 
in  his  face  which  caused  her  eyes  to  drop,  and 
her  breath  to  come  more  quickly. 

[368] 


THE   TOUCH   HUMAN 

"  I  don't  know.  I  'm  miserable,  and  lonely, 
and  tired.  I  Ve  thought  I  had  an  ideal,  and  I 
followed  it,  working  for  it  faithfully  and  for  it 
alone.  I  Ve  shown  it  to  myself,  glowing,  splen 
did,  when  I  became  weary  and  ready  to  yield. 
I've  sacrificed,  in  attempting  its  attainment, 
youth  and  pleasure  —  self,  continually.  Still, 
I'm  afar  off  —  and  still  the  light  beckons  me 
on.  I  work  day  after  day,  and  night  after 
night,  as  ever;  but  the  faith  within  me  is  grow 
ing  weaker.  Might  not  the  ideal  I  worshipped 
after  all  be  an  earth-born  thing,  an  ambition 
whose  brightness  is  not  of  pure  gold,  but  of 
tinsel?  That  which  I  have  sought,  speaks 
always  to  me  so  loudly  that  there  may  be  no 
mistake  in  hearing. 

" '  I  am  thy  god,'  it  says ; '  worship  me  —  and 
me  alone.  S  acrifice  —  sacrifice  —  sacrifice  — 
thyself  —  thy  love.  Thus  shalt  thou  attain  me.' 

"  One  day  I  stopped  my  work  to  think;  hid 
myself  solitary  that  I  might  question.  '  What 
shall  I  have  when  I  attain  thee  ? '  I  asked. 

"  *  Fame — fame  —  the  plaudits  of  the  people 
—  a  pedestal  apart.' 

[369] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

c  Yes/  whispered  my  soul  to  me,  '  and  a 
great  envy  always  surrounding;  a  great  fight 
always  to  hold  thy  small  pedestal  secure.' 

"  Of  such  as  this  are  ideals  made  ?  No.  'T  was 
a  mistake.  I  have  sought  not  an  ideal,  but  an 
ambition  —a  worthless  thing.  An  ideal  is 
something  beautiful  —  a  great  love.  'Tis  not 
yet  too  late  to  correct  my  fault;  to  seek  this 
ideal  —  this  beautiful  thing  —  this  love." 

He  reached  over  to  the  woman  and  their 
fingers,  as  by  chance,  touching,  lingered  to 
gether.  His  eyes  shone,  and  when  he  spoke  his 
voice  trembled. 

"You  know  the  ideal — the  beautiful  thing 
— the  love  I  seek." 

Side  by  side  they  sat,  each  bosom  throbbing; 
not  with  the  wild  passion  of  youth,  but  with  the 
deeper,  more  spiritual  love  of  middle-life. 
Overhead,  the  night  wind  murmured ;  all  about, 
the  crickets  sang. 

Turning,  she  met  him  face  to  face,  frankly, 
earnestly. 

"Let  us  think." 

She  rose,  in  her  eyes  the  look  men  worship 
and,  worshipping,  find  oblivion. 
[3701 


THE   TOUCH  HUMAN 

A  moment  they  stood  together. 
"  Good-night,"  she  whispered. 
"Good-night,"   his  lips   silently   answered, 
pressing  upon  hers. 


A  DARK  HORSE 

IOWA  CITY  is  not  large,  nor  are  the  pros 
pects  for  metropolitan  greatness  at  all  flat 
tering.  Even  her  most  zealous  citizen,  the 
ancient  of  the  market  corner,  admits  that 
"  there  ain't  been  much  stirrin'  for  quite  a  spell 
back,"  and  among  the  broad  fraternity  of  com 
mercial  travellers,  the  town  is  a  standing  joke. 
Yet,  throughout  the  entire  State,  no  community 
of  equal  size  is  so  well  known.  It  is  the  home 
of  the  State  University. 

In  the  year  '90-something-or-other,  there  was 
enrolled  in  the  junior  class  of  the  university, 
one  Walter  R.  Chester,  but  it  is  doubtful 
whether  five  other  students  in  the  same  classic 
seat  of  learning  could  have  told  you  his  given 
name.  Away  back  in  his  freshman  year  he  had 
been  dubbed  "  Lord  "  Chester.  And  as  "  Lord  " 
Chester  alone  is  his  name  still  preserved,  and 
revered  in  university  annals. 

The  reasons  lying  back  of  this  exaltation  io 
the  peerage  were  not  very  complex,  but  quite  as 
[373] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

adequate  as  those  usually  inspiring  college 
nicknames.  He  was  known  to  be  country- 
bred,  and  the  average  freshwater  school  defines 
the  "country"  as  a  region  of  dense  mental 
darkness,  commencing  where  the  campus  ends 
and  extending  thence  in  every  direction, 
throughout  the  unchartered  realms  of  space. 

Each  Friday  afternoon,  "Lord"  Chester 
would  carefully  lock  his  room  and  disappear 
upon  a  bicycle;  this  much  was  plainly  visible 
to  everybody.  On  Monday  he  would  reappear. 
The  hiatus  afforded  a  peg  from  which  much 
unprofitable  speculation  was  suspended.  The 
argument  most  plausible  was  that  he  went 
home,  while  one  romantic  youth  suggested  a 
girl.  The  accusation  was  never  repeated. 
What?  The  "Lord"  a  ladies'  man?  Tut! 
One  would  as  soon  expect  a  statue  to  drill  a 
minstrel  show. 

Thus  Chester's  personal  affairs  remained  a 
mystery.  He  never  talked  reflexively — rare 
attribute  in  a  college  man — and,  moreover, 
curiosity  never  throve  well  in  his  presence.  It 
utterly  failed  to  bear  fruit. 

Another  peculiarity  distinguished  him  from 

[374] 


A  DARK   HORSE 

all  the  rest  of  the  student  body:  he  roomed  by 
himself.  Although  invariably  courteous  and 
polite  to  visitors,  he  was  never  known  to  extend 
an  invitation  for  a  second  visit.  He  quite  obvi 
ously  wanted  to  be  left  alone,  and  the  "  fellows  " 
met  him  more  than  half-way. 

But  what,  more  than  anything  else,  probably 
helped  to  designate  him  "  Lord,"  was  the  scru 
pulous  way  in  which  he  dressed.  There  was  no 
hint  of  the  pastoral  in  his  sartorial  accomplish 
ments,  and  it  was  his  one  extravagance.  Though 
from  the  country  and  therefore  presumably 
poor,  no  swell  son  of  the  Western  haute  monde 
made  an  equally  smart  appearance. 

We  have  been  viewing  the  youth  from  the 
standpoint  of  his  fellow-students.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  they  never  saw  the  real  man,  the  man 
behind  the  closed  door,  at  all.  He  was  a  terrific 
worker.  When  he  decided  to  do  a  thing,  he  did 
it.  Night  was  as  day  at  such  times,  and  meals 
were  unthought  of.  He  literally  plunged  out 
of  sight  into  his  work,  and  as  yet  he  had  never 
failed. 

One  reason  for  this  uniform  success  lay  in  the 
fact  that  he  was  able  to  define  his  limitations, 

[375] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

and  never  attempted  the  impossible.  He  was, 
indeed,  poor ;  that  is,  relatively  so.  His  earliest 
recollections  were  associated  with  corn  rows 
and  grilling  suns;  which  accounted  for  the 
present  cheerfulness  with  which  he  tackled  any 
task,  and  for  his  appetite  for  hard  work.  When 
tired,  he  would  think  of  the  weight  of  a  hoe  in  a 
boy's  hand  at  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and 
proceed  with  renewed  vigor. 

Such  was  "  Lord  "  Chester:  product  of  work 
and  solitude;  a  man  who  knew  more  about  the 
ideal  than  the  real;  a  man  who  would  never 
forget  a  friend  nor  forgive  an  injury;  who 
would  fight  to  the  bitter  end  and  die  game  — 
hero  of  "the"  Marathon,  whose  exciting  his 
tory  is  impossible  to  avoid  in  Iowa  City. 

By  nature,  Chester  was  an  athlete,  and  by 
way  of  exercise  he  was  accustomed  to  indulge 
in  a  few  turns  daily  upon  the  cinder  path. 
One  evening  in  early  spring  he  was  jogging 
along  at  a  steady  brisk  pace,  when  two  men  in 
training-suits  caught  up  with  him.  They  were 
puffing  when  they  fell  in  beside  him.  Pres 
ently  they  dropped  behind,  and  one,  a  tall  im- 


A  DARK   HORSE 

portant  youth,  of  the  name  of  Richards,  called 
out: 

"  I  say,  me  lud,  aren't  you  going  to  clear  the 
trail?" 

Quick  as  a  shot  Chester  halted  and  faced 
around. 

"  What 's  that  ? "  he  asked  quietly. 

The  other  two  nearly  bumped  into  him,  but 
managed  to  come  to  a  standstill,  before  pre 
cipitating  that  catastrophe.  They  lurched 
back  upon  their  heels,  nearly  toppling  back 
wards,  too  surprised  for  the  moment  to  speak. 
Chester  did  not  stir. 

"  Jiminy  crickets  ! "  Richards'  companion  ex 
claimed  in  a  moment.  "  You  're  deuced  sudden, 
Chester,  I  must  say." 

And  Richards'  manner  promptly  grew  con 
ciliatory. 

"Old  man,"  he  said,  smiling,  "you  really 
ought  to  train.  You  've  got  form  —  by  George, 
you  have  !  Besides,  you  wouldn't  have  any 
opposition  to  speak  of,  you  know." 

Richards  was  still  smiling;  but  a  smile,  how 
ever  warmly  encouraged  from  within,  is  apt  to 
take  cold  in  a  frost.  The  casual  glance  with 
[377] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

which  Chester  took  in  the  young  man,  from  his 
light  sprinting-pumps  to  his  eyes,  may  be  ac 
curately  described  as  frigid.  Not  until  he  had 
held  the  other's  embarrassed  look  for  an  appre 
ciable  pause  did  he  deign  to  speak. 

• 

"  There  really  ought  to  be,"  he  said  without 
emotion,  "  at  least  one  man  in  the  field.  I  think 
I  shall  train." 

Thus  it  came  about  that  "Lord"  Chester 
decided  to  enter  athletics.  Five  minutes  pre 
viously  even  the  thought  had  not  occurred  to 
him;  but  he  wasn't  the  man  to  quail  before  a 
bluff. 

The  track  management  of  this  particular 
university  was  an  oligarchy ;  was  governed  by  a 
few  absolute  individuals.  Perhaps  such  a  con 
dition  is  not  as  rare  as  might  be  supposed. 
However  that  may  be,  it  was  here  a  case  of 
being  either  "  in  "  or  "  out."  Chester  was  un 
popular,  and  from  the  first  had  been  out. 

There  were  only  four  entries  for  the  running 
events,  the  same  names  appearing  in  all;  so  he 
could  not  be  kept  from  the  field.  But  he  well 
knew  that  various  ways  existed  by  which  favor 
itism  could  be  shown,  and  that  these  prefer- 

[878] 


A  DARK  HORSE 

ences,  too  trifling  in  themselves  to  warrant  com 
plaint,  might  prove  a  serious  handicap  in  a  close 
contest.  He  knew  that,  however  honors  might 
lie  among  the  other  entries,  they  would  hesi 
tate  at  nothing  to  prevent  him  from  taking  a 
place.  In  fact,  Richards  openly  boasted  that 
he  would  pocket  "  'is  ludship  "  at  the  finish. 

So  Chester  shaped  his  plans  accordingly. 
He  had  never  aimed  at  the  impossible,  nor  did 
he  now.  He  withdrew  from  all  short-distance 
runs  and  yard  dashes,  and  concentrated  his 
mind  upon  the  Marathon  —  thus  dignified,  al 
though  the  faculty  would  permit  nothing  more 
arduous  than  two  miles. 

In  saying  trained,  everything  is  meant  that 
the  word  can  be  made  to  imply :  the  sort  of  hour 
in,  hour  out,  to-the-limit-of -endurance  training 
which  either  makes  or  kills.  A  fortnight  before 
Field  Day  Chester  was  in  perfect  condition, 
and  had  his  capabilities  gauged  to  a  nicety.  He 
was  now  entered  only  in  the  Marathon;  they 
virtually  had  forced  him  from  the  half-mile, 
and  they  should  be  made  to  pay  the  penalty. 

One  day  before  the  race  Chester  went  to 
the  bank  and  inquired  the  amount  of  his 

[379] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

balance.  It  was  shown  him:  one  hundred  and 
six  dollars  and  some  odd  cents.  He  drew  a 
cheque  for  the  amount,  and  thrust  the  bills  into 
his  pocket.  From  the  bank  he  walked  straight 
up  Main  Street  for  three  blocks,  then  turned  in 
at  a  well-kept  brick  house. 

"  Mr.  Richards  in  ? "  he  asked  of  the  servant- 
girl. 

'Yes,  sir.  Right  up-stairs  —  second  door  to 
the  left.  He 's  got  company  now  " 

The  junior  nevertheless  resolutely  mounted 
the  stairs  and  knocked  upon  the  door.  The 
noise  inside  resembled  a  pocket-edition  of  the 
Chicago  Board  of  Trade,  so  Chester  hammered 
again,  louder. 

"  Come  ! "  some  one  yelled,  and  the  noise 
subsided. 

He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  inside.  A 
half-dozen  young  fellows  were  scattered  about, 
but  as  he  knew  none  of  them,  except  by  name, 
he  ignored  their  presence  and  walked  directly 
up  to  Richards. 

"I've  come  on  business,"  he  said;  "can  I 
speak  with  you  a  moment  ? " 

"  Sure  ! "  Richards  removed  his  feet  from  a 

[380] 


A  DARK  HORSE 

chair,  kicking  it  at  the  same  time  toward  his 
visitor.  "  These  fellows  know  more  about  my 
business  now  than  I  do  myself,  so  get  it  off  of 
your  chest,  Chester." 

The  company  laughed,  but  Chester  remained 
wholly  unmoved. 

"  All  right,"  said  he,  calmly.  "  You  're  in  the 
Marathon:  want  to  risk  anything  on  it  ? " 

Up  went  Richards'  feet  once  more,  this  time 
to  a  table.  He  winked  broadly  at  his  friends, 
and  replied  with  an  air  of  vast  carelessness, 

"Why — yes;  I  don't  mind.  Guess  I  can 
cover  you." 

"  How  much  ?  "  demanded  Chester.  "  Odds 
even,  mind." 

"  I  said  I  'd  cover  you,  did  n't  I  ?  "  with  some 
warmth.  Richards  fumbled  in  his  trousers 
pockets,  extracting  therefrom  a  handful  of 
loose  change. 

Chester  advanced  to  the  table.  At  sight  of 
his  roll  of  bills  a  sudden  silence  fell.  All  eyes 
were  glued  upon  them  while  he  counted. 

"Five — ten — fifteen"  —  and  so  on,  up  to 
one  hundred.  He  stowed  the  remaining  five 
back  in  his  pocket,  pushed  the  pile  into  the 

[381] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

middle  of  the  table  and  looked  coolly  down  at 
his  host.  Said  he, 

"  One  hundred,  even,  that  I  win  the  Mara 
thon.  Cover,  or  show  these  fellows  the  sort  of 
piker  you  are." 

And  Richards  came  very  near  to  showing 
them.  His  face  was  a  study.  He  hadn't  ten 
dollars  to  his  name ;  he  was  painfully  aware  of 
the  fact,  and  here  were  these  six  boys  who  would 
know  it  too  in  about  two  seconds.  He  was  rat 
tled,  and  sat  looking  at  the  pile  of  bills  as 
though  charmed.  He  racked  his  brain  for  some 
way  out  of  the  predicament,  but  the  only  thing 
he  could  think  of  was  to  wonder  whether  the 
portrait  on  the  top  note  was  that  of  Hendricks 
or  Rufus  Choate.  "  It  can't  be  Choate,"  sud 
denly  occurred  to  him.  "  But  then  it  —  " 

There  was  a  laugh  in  the  back  of  the  room. 
Richards  stood  up.  A  dozen  fire  alarms  would 
not  have  recalled  him  so  quickly.  Whatever 
else  might  be  said  of  the  man  he  was  game,  and 
now  his  gameness  showed. 

"Give  me  an  hour;  I'll  meet  you  then  in 
front  of  the  postoffice."  While  speaking  he 
had  gotten  into  his  coat ;  now  he  walked  toward 

[  382  ] 


A  DARK   HORSE 

the  door.  "  Amuse  yourselves  while  I  'm  gone, 
fellows,"  he  said,  and  disappeared  down  the 
stairway. 

Chester  replaced  the  notes  in  his  pocket, 
nodded  gravely  to  the  company  ,and  followed. 

Not  a  boy  spoke,  but  all  sat  staring  blankly 
at  the  doorway. 

An  hour  later,  both  Richards  and  Chester  ap 
peared  at  the  postoffice.  The  former,  by  dint 
of  much  persistent  circulation  among  his  fellow 
athletes,  had  found  enough  of  them  who  were 
willing  to  pool  their  funds  in  order  to  secure  the 
necessary  amount.  The  two  young  men  had 
witnesses,  the  wager  was  properly  closed  and 
the  money  deposited.  Neither  spoke  an  un 
necessary  word  during  the  meeting,  but  when 
Chester  started  to  leave,  Richards  turned  face 
tiously  to  his  friends. 

"  'Is  bloomin'  ludship  will  start  training  Fri 
day;  bet  he  has  his  wheel  in  soak." 

To  which  remark  Chester  paid  not  the 
slightest  attention. 

Whatever  may  be  said  to  the  contrary,  six 
boys  can  no  more  retain  a  secret  than  can  six 
girls,  and  inside  of  an  hour  the  story  of  the  big 

[383] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

bet  had  spread  over  the  town.  In  due  course  it 
penetrated  to  the  city:  one  day  a  reporter  ap 
peared  and  interviewed  the  principals,  and 
on  the  following  Sunday  their  photographs 
adorned  the  pink  section  of  a  great  daily.  This 
was  nuts  for  the  university  —  but  it  is  getting 
ahead  of  our  own  story  somewhat. 

Chester,  naturally,  was  the  centre  of  curi 
osity.  He  had  not  pawned  his  "  bike,"  as  was 
demonstrated  when  Friday  rolled  around;  but 
had  it  been  known  that  the  last  cent  he  owned 
in  the  world  had  been  staked  upon  the  issue,  no 
doubt  the  interest  would  have  been  greater. 

Field  Day  opened  bright  and  clear,  and  early 
in  the  afternoon  Athletic  Park  began  to  fill.  A 
rumor  had  gone  abroad  that  the  two  principal 
competitors  had  actually  come  to  blows,  and 
that  each  had  sworn  to  die  rather  than  lose  the 
race.  Long  before  the  opening  event  the  in- 
closure  was  crowded  with  spectators,  all  eagerly 
discussing  the  Marathon,  to  the  exclusion  of 
every  other  contest.  The  opinion  was  freely 
expressed  that  Richards  would  "  put  a  crimp  in 
that  chesty  Chester,"  and  that  he  would  "win 

[384] 


A  DARK  HORSE 

in  a  walk."  They  made  no  bones  about  playing 
favorites. 

It  was  a  still,  hot  day,  and  if  there  is  any  ad 
vantage  in  atmospheric  conditions  each  contes 
tant  should  have  been  inspired  with  that  abso 
lute  confidence  of  winning,  without  which  the 
fastest  race  is  but  a  tame  affair.  At  two  o'clock 
the  band  commenced  playing.  The  judges 
tried  to  follow  the  programme,  but  the  cries  of 
"  Marathon  !  Marathon  ! "  grew  so  insistent  and 
clamorous  that  they  finally  yielded,  and  the 
event  was  called. 

Richards  responded  first.  He  was  popular, 
and  the  grandstand  gave  him  an  ovation  as  he 
took  his  position  under  the  wire.  It  seemed  as 
though  the  handkerchief  of  every  girl  present 
was  in  the  air.  The  two  figureheads,  friends  of 
Richards,  came  next,  and  last  of  all  Chester. 

A  feeble  attempt  at  applause  marked  his  pas 
sage  in  front  of  the  grandstand;  but  he  never 
looked  up,  and  for  any  indication  he  gave  to 
the  contrary,  he  might  have  been  the  only  person 
on  the  grounds.  His  track  suit  was  hidden  by 
a  long  black  door  curtain,  in  lieu  of  a  bath-robe, 

[385] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

and  a  pretty  girl  on  the  front  row  remarked 
audibly,  "  He 's  all  ready  for  the  funeral." 

"  Sure  thing,"  answered  her  companion. 
"He  knows  his  obsequies  are  about  to  take 
place." 

"Peels  well,"  a  man  by  the  rail  critically 
commented.  ' '  But  —  rats  !  —  Richards  has 
pocketed  this  event  ever  since  he's  been  here; 
you  can't  make  the  pace  for  him  with  anything 
slower  than  an  auto." 

The  runners  were  in  line  at  last,  crouching 
low,  tense,  finger-tips  upon  the  ground,  the 
starting-pistol  above  their  heads. 

"  Starters  ready  ? "  floated  in  a  sing-song 
voice  from  the  judges'  stand.  "Timers  r-r- 
read-y-y  ? "  A  sharp  crack  from  the  pistol,  and 
they  were  off. 

Then  a  queer  thing  happened.  Instead  of 
dawdling  along  behind,  as  every  one  expected, 
Chester,  without  an  instant's  hesitation,  pushed 
to  the  front  and  set  the  pace. 

And  what  a  pace !  It  was  literally  a  race 
from  the  word  go.  Chester  took  the  inside  and 
faced  the  music,  Richards  and  the  others  close 
in  behind.  Sympathy  in  the  grandstand  was 

[386] 


A  DARK   HORSE 

beginning  to  turn;  everybody  appreciates 
pluck.  The  spectators,  however,  knew  him  to 
be  a  novice,  and  many  supposed  that  he  had 
lost  his  head ;  so  when  he  passed  the  grandstand 
on  the  first  lap,  any  amount  of  contradictory 
advice  was  shouted  noisily. 

"  Let  them  set  the  pace  ! "  "  You  're  killing 
yourself!"  "Oh,  you  bally  Lord  !— go  it, 
kid  ! "  "  Don't  let  'em  nose  you  out,  Chester, 
old  scout ! "  "  Save  your  air,  old  top,  you  '11 
need  it ! "  and  much  more  of  a  like  kind  was 
hurled  at  him,  which  reached  his  ears  through 
the  veil  of  singing  wind,  like  the  roar  of  distant 
breakers  upon  the  seashore. 

He  kept  his  own  counsel.  He  had  followed 
that  pace  every  day  during  the  last  two  weeks 
of  his  training,  and  he  knew  precisely  what  he 
could  do.  Besides  the  air  was  quiet,  and  the 
disadvantage  of  being  pace-maker  was  not  so 
great  as  people  thought. 

In  this  formation  they  came  round  the  half- 
mile  oval  the  second  time,  each  man  working 
with  the  nice  regularity  of  well-oiled  machinery. 
Not  a  sound  now  from  the  grandstand;  only 
the  soft  pat  of  the  runners'  feet  could  be  heard. 

[387] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

The  crowd  had  caught  Chester's  idea:  but  could 
he  hold  out  ? 

They  had  passed  the  three-quarter  pole  on 
the  third  lap  when  a  yell  went  up,  and  every 
body  rose  excitedly  to  their  feet.  Space  was 
growing  rapidly  between  the  leaders  and  those 
behind;  it  was  now  resolved  to  a  duel  between 
the  principals. 

As  they  dashed  past,  the  crowd  examined 
them  closely,  scores  of  field-glasses  being 
trained  upon  them  like  so  many  guns. 

Chester  was  still  erect,  his  head  well  back, 
chest  forward,  arms  working  piston-like,  close 
down  at  his  sides,  while  his  long,  regular  tread 
was  as  light  and  springy  as  an  Indian's.  His 
jaw  was  set  grimly,  but  it  was  manifest  that  he 
was  still  breathing  deep  and  regularly  through 
his  nostrils. 

It  was  equally  manifest  that  his  opponent 
was  in  distress.  The  last  of  his  strength  and 
determination  was  dying  away  in  a  desperate 
effort  to  keep  his  pace;  his  face  was  colorless, 
eyes  staring,  his  step  irregular.  Worst  of  all, 
his  mouth  was  open,  and  his  chest  could  be  seen 
to  vibrate  as  he  panted. 

[388] 


He  heard  a  voice   ....    and  glanced  back. 


A  DARK   HORSE 

"  By  Jove  ! "  muttered  the  man  at  the  rail, 
as  amazed  as  though  the  blue  canopy  of  heaven 
had  suddenly  fallen,  "  Chester  '11  take  it,  I  do 
believe ! "  And  the  crowd  was  beginning  to 
believe  the  same. 

The  rivals  maintained  their  relative  positions 
until,  on  the  last  lap,  the  three-quarter  pole  was 
once  more  reached.  The  two  figureheads  had 
dropped  out  and  mounted  a  fence  where  they 
would  not  be  too  far  away  from  the  finish. 

Every  eye  was  trained  upon  the  racers,  the 
excitement  was  tense.  Chester  was  pounding 
grimly  away;  sweat  was  pouring  down  his  face 
until  it  glistened  in  the  sun;  his  legs  ached  as 
though  in  a  boot  of  torture.  But  he  had  no 
thought  of  allowing  Richards  to  close  the  gap 
between  them  by  an  inch.  He  was  counting  the 
pat-pat-pat!  of  his  feet  upon  the  track. 
"  Seventy-three  more,  and  it 's  won,  old  boy," 
he  muttered.  He  could  hear  Richards'  every 
breath.  "  One,  two,  three,  —  "  he  counted. 

He  heard  a  voice,  so  broken  that  the  words 
could  hardly  be  distinguished,  and  he  glanced 
back. 

"  For  God's  —  sake,  Chester — hold — up  ! " 

[389] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

gasped  Richards.    "I  —  can't  lose — this  race 


—  now." 


He  was  a  pitiable  figure,  his  white  face  drawn 
in  lines  of  pain,  his  body  swaying  uncertainly, 
as  he  pressed  despairingly  on. 

For  one  moment  Chester's  heart  felt  a  throb 
of  pity.  Then  he  thought  of  his  work  in  sun 
and  rain;  of  Richards'  contempt  in  the  past;  of 
the  cheers  for  his  rival  and  the  open  ridicule  of 
his  own  pretensions;  and  last  of  all,  but  far 
from  being  the  least  consideration,  the  two  hun 
dred  dollars  absolutely  necessary  to  carry  him 
through  his  final  year  to  graduation. 

Ah,  nobody  knew  about  that  two  hundred 
dollars,  save  himself  and  one  little  girl,  who 
had  driven  into  town  early  in  the  afternoon, 
and  who  had  slipped  timidly  into  as  good  a  seat 
as  she  could  find  in  the  stand.  She  showed  one 
dot  of  pink  among  hundreds  of  fluffy  white 
gowns;  Chester  was  ignorant  of  her  presence, 
but  as  he  sped  round  and  round  the  track,  her 
eyes  never  once  left  him,  nor  did  she  cease  pray 
ing  silently  that  he  might  win  ! 

Only  for  an  instant  did  he  hesitate;  then  his 
face  settled  into  an  expression  not  pleasant  to 

[390] 


A  DARK   HORSE 

look  upon.  He  forgot  that  he  was  tired,  that 
a  grandstand  full  of  howling  maniacs  was 
ahead  of  him.  He  thought  only  of  the  girl  in 
pink  —  and  made  his  spurt. 

Richards  tried  to  follow,  but  a  haze  was 
forming  over  his  eyes.  His  heart  was  pound 
ing  until  he  believed  that  he  must  suffocate. 
Then  he  reeled  suddenly,  lost  his  balance  and 
fell  into  darkness. 

"  So  this  is  victory  ! "  murmured  Chester  to 
himself  a  moment  later,  as  he  swayed  un 
steadily  upon  the  shoulders  of  a  howling  mob. 
He  was  thinking  of  poor  Richards  lying  back 
there  upon  the  track.  But  just  then  he  espied 
the  transfigured  face  of  the  girl  in  pink. 

"  It  is  !    It  is  ! "  he  shouted  joyfully. 


[801] 


THE  WORTH  OF  THE  PRICE 

NOBODY  in  a  normal  humor  would  dis 
pute  the  fact  that  Clementine  Willis  was 
a  strikingly  handsome  girl.  One  might  even  be 
moved,  by  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  to  declare  her 
beautiful.  There  was  about  her  that  subtle, 
elusive  charm  of  perfection  in  minute  detail, 
possible  only  to  the  wealthy  who  can  discrimi 
nate  between  art  and  that  which  is  artificial,  and 
who  can  take  advantage  of  all  of  art's  magic 
resources,  without  imparting  the  slightest  sug 
gestion  of  artificiality. 

Her  hair  and  eyes  were  dark  —  very  dark; 
her  skin  bore  the  matchless,  transparent  tint  of 
ivory;  every  line  of  her  high-bred  face,  and  of 
her  hands  and  her  slender,  arched  feet,  bespoke 
the  ultimate  degree  of  refinement. 

She  was  the  sort  of  girl,  in  short,  that  a  full- 
blooded  man  must  needs  stare  at,  perhaps  fur 
tively,  but  with  no  thought  of  boldness.  Stupid, 

[393] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

indeed,  must  be  he  who  would  attempt  anything 
even  remotely  approaching  familiarity  with 
Miss  Willis. 

Her  smart  brougham  waits  in  front  of  a  new 
and  resplendent  downtown  office  building  on 
a  certain  afternoon,  while  Miss  Willis  ascends 
in  one  of  the  elevators  to  the  tenth  floor.  She 
proceeds  with  assurance,  but  leisurely  —  may 
hap  she  is  a  trifle  bored  —  to  a  door  which  some 
how  manages  to  convey  an  impression  of  pros 
perity  beyond.  It  bears  upon  its  frosted  glass 
the  name  of  Dr.  Leonard,  a  renowned  specialist 
in  diseases  of  the  throat,  besides  the  names  of  a 
half-dozen  assistants  —  in  much  smaller  letter 
ing —  who,  doubtless,  are  in  the  ferment  of 
struggling  for  positions  of  equal  renown. 

The  door  opening  discloses  a  neat,  uniformed 
maid  and  a  large  and  richly  furnished  reception- 
room.  JFive  ladies,  of  various  ages  and  all  hand 
somely  gowned,  are  seated  here  and  there,  mani 
festly  forcing  patience  to  relieve  the  ennui 
which  would  have  been  tolerated  with  no  other 
detail  of  the  day's  routine. 

This  cursory  survey  is  sufficient,  it  is  hoped, 
to  demonstrate  that  Dr.  Leonard's  practice  is 

[394] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

confined  among  a  class  of  which  most  other 
practitioners  might  be  pardonably  envious. 

The  white-aproned,  white-capped  maid 
smiled  a  polite  recognition  of  the  newest 
arrival.  A  bit  flustered  by  the  calmly  imper 
sonal  scrutiny  with  which  her  greeting  was  re 
ceived,  she  addressed  Miss  Willis  in  a  subdued 
voice. 

"  I  was  to  tell  you,  Miss  Willis,  that  there  is 
no  occasion  for  Dr.  Leonard  to  see  you  himself 
to-day.  If  you  please,  Dr.  Carter  will  fill  your 
engagement." 

Miss  Willis  did  not  please.  It  was  quite 
clear  that  she  regarded  this  arrangement  with 
considerable  disfavor. 

"  You  may  inform  Dr.  Leonard  that  I  shall 
not  wait,"  she  said  coldly.  "  If  I  am  so  far  im 
proved  that  I  do  not  require  his  personal  atten 
tion,  I  shall  not  come  again." 

With  that,  she  turned  decisively  to  leave. 
The  maid  followed  her,  hesitantly,  to  the  door, 
and  Miss  Willis  could  not  repress  a  smile  at  the 
girl's  consternation.  The  situation  had  ended 
in  an  altogether  unexpected  manner.  And  then, 
in  the  next  instant,  it  became  manifest  that, 

[395] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

however  absolute  Dr.  Leonard  might  be,  it  was 
not  a  part  of  the  maid's  duties  to  discourage 
those  who  would  seek  his  services.  She  was 
emboldened  to  protest. 

"Just  try  him,  please,  Miss  Willis,"  in  a 
nervous  murmur ;  "he  —  truly  —  he 's  —  " 

The  assurance  was  left  unfinished;  but  the 
speaker's  flurry  revealed  her  predicament,  and 
Miss  Willis  smiled  encouragement. 

"  Very  well,"  she  returned  graciously. 

The  maid  gave  her  a  grateful  look  and  con 
ducted  her  though  several  rooms,  all  in  accord 
with  the  sumptuous  reception-room,  to  a  tiny 
private  office,  where  she  opened  the  door  and 
stood  respectfully  on  one  side. 

The  visitor's  submissive  mood  all  at  once 
vanished.  She  stared  resentfully  at  the 
cramped  quarters,  and  entered  reluctantly,  as 
if  with  a  feeling  of  being  thrust  willy-nilly  into 
a  labelled  pill-box.  A  man  was  writing  at  a 
desk  in  a  corner,  and  he  continued  writing. 

"  Take  a  chair,  please,"  he  said  crisply,  with 
out  looking  up.  And  this  was  the  only  sign  to 
indicate  that  he  was  aware  that  his  privacy  had 
been  invaded. 

[396] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

Miss  Willis's  dark  eyes  flashed.  She  seemed 
about  to  make  an  indignant  rejoinder,  but 
thought  better  of  it.  She  ignored  the  invitation 
to  sit  down,  however,  and  by  and  by  the  cir 
cumstance  caught  the  writer's  attention;  he 
bent  a  quick,  surprised  look  round  at  her  —  then 
proceeded  with  his  writing.  He  did  not  repeat 
the  request. 

He  presently  finished  his  task,  noted  the 
time,  and  made  an  entry  upon  a  tabulated  sheet 
beside  him ;  he  then  filed  the  memorandum  upon 
a  hook,  and  swung  round  in  his  chair,  facing  the 
intruder  —  for  such  the  girl  felt  herself  to  be. 

Fortunately  Miss  Willis  was  not  without  a 
sense  of  humor,  and  she  was  able  to  perceive 
an  amusing  quality  in  her  reception  to-day. 
Such  supreme  indifference  to  her  very  existence 
was  so  wholly  foreign  to  anything  in  her  past 
experience,  that  she  was  acutely  sensible  of  its 
freshness  and  novelty. 

But  now  the  man  became  all  at  once  im 
pressed  with  the  circumstance  that  she  was  still 
standing,  and  he  bounded  guiltily  to  his  feet. 

"  Pardon  me  ! "  he  exclaimed  in  confusion. 
"I  was — was  very  busy  when  you  came  in. 

[397] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Won't  you  please  have  this  chair  ? "  He  awk 
wardly  shoved  one  forward. 

The  man  was  young;  Miss  Willis  was  unable 
to  determine  whether  he  was  good-looking,  or 
ugly ;  whether  he  was  the  right  sort,  or  impos 
sible;  so  she  accepted  the  proffered  chair. 

He  resumed  his  own  seat,  and  leaned  one  arm 
wearily  upon  the  desk.  Already  he  had  for 
gotten  his  momentary  embarrassment,  and  he 
was  now  regarding  the  girl  simply  as  a  patient. 

"Dr.  Leonard  has  given  me  the  history  of 
your  case,"  he  informed  her  in  a  matter  of  fact 
way.  "He  requests  that  I  continue  with  it  — 
unless,  of  course,  you  prefer  that  he  treat  you 
himself."  He  got  up  as  he  spoke,  and  Miss 
Willis  decided  that  he  was  good-looking  and 
young,  and  that  he  was  tall  and  of  a  figure  to 
appeal  to  the  feminine  eye. 

Then  she  was  guilty  of  a  most  reprehensible 
act  of  slyness.  She  turned  full  upon  him  the 
batteries  of  her  lustrous  dark  eyes,  and  smiled 
dazzlingly,  bewitchingly. 

"  I  came  to  see  Dr.  Leonard,"  she  said  in  a 
tone  that  made  one  think  of  dripping  honey. 

[398] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

"And  I  object  to  being  turned  over  to  an 
assistant — at  least  before  consulting  me." 

Utterly  at  variance  with  all  precedent,  the 
bewitching  look  produced  no  effect  whatever. 
The  man  bowed  gravely,  pressed  a  bell-button, 
and  then  went  over  to  where  Miss  Willis  was 
sitting.  Before  he  could  speak — if  he  had  any 
such  intention — a  girl  in  starched  cap  and 
apron  appeared  in  answer  to  his  ring. 

"  Miss  Willis  has  concluded  not  to  remain," 
he  informed  the  maid.  "  Show  Number 
Twenty-seven  into  Room  Four.  Inform  her 
that  I  will  see  her  in  two  minutes."  Producing 
his  watch,  he  deliberately  marked  the  time. 

He  turned  to  Miss  Willis  in  a  moment,  with 
an  air  which  said  as  plainly  as  words  could  have 
said  it:  "It's  a  terrible  waste  of  precious  time, 
but  if  necessary  1 11  sacrifice  the  two  minutes 
to  humoring  any  further  caprices  you  may 
develop." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  young  lady's  tran 
quillity:  she  laughed,  and  laughed  frankly. 

"  Pray  tell  me,"  she  managed  to  say,  "  what 
my  number  is." 

[399] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

Without  the  slightest  alteration  in  his  serious 
mien,  he  consulted  a  list  hanging  beside  his  desk. 

"  Seven,"  he  announced  at  length. 

"Oh!" 

"Why?"  quickly.  "Has  there  been  some 
mistake  ? " 

"No  —  oh,  no";  Miss  Willis  was  now  per 
fectly  composed.  "I  had  a  feeling,  though, 
that  it  must  have  been  nearer  seven  thousand." 

"  It  would  be  impossible,  you  know,"  the  man 
patiently  explained,  "  to  see  that  many  patients 
in  a  day." 

"  Indeed  ?  How  interesting  ! "  Her  irony 
was  unnoticed,  and  once  more  she  laughed.  To 
tell  the  truth,  if  anybody  could  associate  such  a 
frivolity  with  Miss  Willis's  dignity,  she  giggled. 

She  contemplated  the  man  with  undisguised 
curiosity.  Naturally  enough  she  had  met  more 
men  than  she  could  even  remember,  but  never 
one  anything  like  this  particular  specimen.  To 
add  to  her  quickened  interest,  he  was  not  only 
positively  good-looking,  but  every  line  of  his 
face,  the  poise  of  his  well-proportioned,  up 
standing  figure,  the  tilt  of  his  head  and  the 
squareness  of  his  chin,  all  spoke  of  strength;  of 

[400] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

elemental  strength,  and  of  a  purposeful,  reso 
lute  character.  And,  too,  she  told  herself  that 
he  had  nice  eyes.  The  nice  eyes  never  wavered 
in  their  respectful  regard  of  her. 

He  spoke  again : 

"  I  can  assure  you  that  Dr.  Leonard  meant 
no  discourtesy.  The  new  arrangement  means 
nothing  further  than  that  your  trouble  is  more 
distinctively  within  my  province.  It  is  his 
custom,  once  he  has  thoroughly  diagnosed  a 
case,  to  assign  it  to  the  one  of  his  assistants  best 
qualified  to  treat  it.  Dr.  Leonard  is  a  very 
busy  man ;  he  can't  be  expected  to  do  more  than 
supervise  his  aids." 

And  now  he  was  actually  rebuking  her  ! 

He  bowed  once  more,  and  moved  toward  the 
door.  His  hand  was  upon  the  knob,  when  an 
imperious  command  brought  him  to  a  standstill. 

"Wait,"  said  Miss  Willis.  "Dr.  Carter,  if 
I  remain  here — " 

He  coolly  interrupted.  "Pardon  me,  Miss 
Willis,  but  my  patient  is  waiting.  I  shall  be  at 
liberty  in  ten  minutes,  then  I  shall  return." 

This  time  he  was  gone. 

Number  Four  must  have  been  an  adjoining 

[401] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

room,  for  the  next  instant  she  could  hear  Dr. 
Carter's  voice  through  the  thin  board  partition. 
His  speech  was  as  unemotional  and  business 
like  as  when  addressing  her.  She  could  not 
make  up  her  mind  whether  to  go  or  wait,  and 
so  sat  pondering  and  presently  forgot  to  go. 

Here  was  a  man  such  as  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  as  existing;  one  absolutely  disinter 
ested,  who  treated  people  —  even  people  like 
Clementine  Willis  —  as  abstractly  as  a  master 
mechanic  goes  about  repairing  a  worn-out  en 
gine.  Perhaps  it  was  a  characteristically  femi 
nine  decision  at  which  she  presently  arrived,  but 
anyway  she  made  up  her  mind,  then  and  there, 
to  know  more  of  this  man. 

After  a  while  Miss  Willis  fell  to  surveying 
the  room ;  with  an  undefined  hope,  perhaps,  that 
it  would  throw  some  further  light  upon  the 
young  doctor's  character.  It  was  essentially 
the  home  of  a  busy  man.  Every  article  had  a 
use  and  a  definite  one.  The  spirit  of  the  place 
was  contagious,  and  presently  she  began  to 
have  a  feeling  that  she  was  the  one  useless  thing 
there. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  the  desk  where 

[4021 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

he  had  been  writing,  upon  which  was  a  pile  of 
loose  manuscript.  Reference  books  were  scat 
tered  all  about,  some  with  improvised  book 
marks,  but  mostly  face  downward,  just  as  they 
had  been  left.  The  environment  was  that  of 
one  who  seeks  to  overtake  and  outstrip  Time, 
rather  than  to  forget  him. 

Dr.  Carter  returned  at  last,  entering  quickly 
but  quietly. 

"Pardon  my  leaving  you  so  abruptly,"  he 
apologized,  the  impersonal  note  again  in  his 
voice,  and  an  inquiry  as  well.  He  seemed  sur 
prised  that  she  had  not  departed. 

The  girl  was  manifestly  at  a  loss  for  words; 
this  was  such  an  extraordinary  predicament  for 
her  to  find  herself  in  that  she  determined  to  say 
something  at  any  cost. 

"Dr.  Carter,"  she  faltered,  "I— have 
changed  my  mind;  I  —  I  —  wish  you  to  con 
tinue  my  treatment  —  if  you  will."  It  was  not 
at  all  what  she  had  intended  saying,  and  she 
was  chagrined  to  feel  her  cheeks  grow  suddenly 
hot;  she  knew  that  they  must  be  rosy. 

It  was  likely  that  young  Dr.  Carter  was  un 
used  to  smiling;  but  suddenly  his  eyes  were 

[403] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

alight.  He  spoke,  and  the  dry,  impersonal  note 
was  gone. 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said.  "We  hard-working 
doctors  can  stand  almost  anything  —  without 
caring  a  snap  of  our  fingers,  too — but  when  it 
comes  to  doubting  or  questioning  —  not  our 
methods,  but  those  that  have  been  tried  and 
proven,  and  of  which  we  merely  avail  ourselves, 
—  why,  we  can't  be  expected  to  waste  much 
sympathy  on  the  scoffers." 

He  rang  the  inevitable  bell,  and  gave  word  to 
the  maid:  "Tell  Dr.  Leonard  that  Miss  Wil 
lis  has  decided  to  continue  her  treatment 
with  me." 

Now,  in  the  light  of  the  foregoing  experience, 
it  was  strange  that  during  the  next  week  Miss 
Willis's  throat  should  require  considerably  more 
attention  than  it  ever  had  under  the  celebrated 
specialist's  personal  ministrations.  She  made 
five  visits  to  Dr.  Carter,  but  it  could  not  be  said 
that  he  had  advanced  an  inch  toward  the  open 
ing  she  had  made.  His  voice  and  manner  were 
a  bit  more  sympathetic  —  and  that  was  all. 

Miss  Willis  seemed  to  find  a  keen  delight  in 
the  fact  that  her  identity,  for  the  time  being, 

[404] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

was  erased  by  a  number;  during  each  visit  she 
made  it  a  point  to  learn  what  this  number  was, 
treating  the  matter  in  a  sportive  spirit,  unbend 
ing  her  wit  to  ridicule  a  practice  which  failed  to 
discriminate  among  the  host  of  patients  who 
came  to  see  Dr.  Leonard. 

"  For  our  purposes,"  Dr.  Carter  tolerantly 
explained,  "  a  number  more  conveniently  iden 
tifies  our  patients;  their  differences  are  only 
pathological.  A  name  is  easily  forgotten,  Miss 
Willis,  unless  there  is  some  unusual  circum 
stance  associated  with  it,  to  impress  it  upon  the 
mind." 

She  was  curious  to  learn  what  unusual  cir 
cumstance  had  caused  him  to  retain  her  name, 
but  lacked  the  temerity  to  ask.  She  would  have 
been  amazed,  unbelieving,  had  he  told  her  that 
it  was  her  beauty;  that  he  was  clinging  rather 
desperately  to  the  unlovely  number,  which  had 
no  individuality  and  whose  features  were  alto 
gether  neutral  and  negative. 

The  change  in  his  manner,  when  it  came, 
almost  took  away  her  breath.  It  was  on  the  oc 
casion  of  her  last  visit.  After  the  familiar  pre 
liminary  examination,  instead  of  proceeding  at 

[405] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

once  with  the  treatment,  as  had  been  his  invari 
able  custom,  Dr.  Carter  walked  over  to  his  desk 
and  sat  down.  For  a  space  he  soberly  regarded 
her. 

"Miss  Willis,"  said  he,  presently,  "there  is 
nothing  whatever  the  matter  with  your  throat." 

She  gasped.  This  calm  statement  brought 
confusingly  to  her  mind  the  circumstance  that 
she  had  forgotten  her  throat  and  its  ailment, 
when,  of  all  considerations,  the  afflicted  member 
should  have  been  uppermost  in  her  mind.  Dr. 
Carter  had  not,  however,  and  he  must  be  won 
dering  why  she  continued  to  come  after  the  oc 
casion  to  do  so  no  longer  existed.  He  at  once 
relieved  her  embarrassment,  though. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  and  she  felt  a  thrill  at 
the  note  of  regret  in  his  voice,  "  that  you  will  be 
glad  to  escape  from  this  hive  ?  " 

"No,  I  shan't,"  she  said,  with  unnecessary 
warmth.  This  involuntary  denial  surprised 
even  herself,  and  she  blushed. 

The  smile  left  Dr.  Carter's  lips,  but  he  said 
nothing — merely  sat  looking  at  her  in  his 
grave  way. 

Here  was  to  be  another  period,  which  Miss 

[406] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

Willis  could  look  back  upon  as  one  of  tempo 
rary  inability  to  find  words.  She  started  to 
leave,  furious  with  herself  for  her  inaptness, 
and  instead  of  going  she  paused  and  turned 
back. 

Dr.  Carter  had  risen ;  he  was  standing  as  she 
had  left  him.  She  drew  a  card  from  her  card- 
case. 

"You  may  think  what  you  please  of  me, 
Dr.  Carter,"  she  said  with  sudden  impulse,  ex 
tending  the  card  and  meeting  his  look  steadily, 
"  but  I  would  be  glad  if  you  were  to  call." 

It  seemed  to  take  him  a  long  time  to  read  the 
address.  All  at  once  his  hands  were  trembling, 
and  when  he  looked  up  the  expression  in  the 
gray  eyes  brought  a  swift  tide  of  color  to  the 
girl's  face,  where  it  deepened,  and  deepened, 
until  she  tingled  from  head  to  foot,  and  a  mist 
obscured  her  vision. 

"Nothing  in  all  this  world  would  give  me 
more  pleasure,"  said  the  man. 

The  girl  turned  and  fled. 

That  very  evening  Dr.  Carter  availed  himself 
of  the  invitation.  Singularly  enough,  since  she 
had  been  hoping  all  the  afternoon  that  he  would 
[  407  ] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

come,  Clementine  Willis  was  frightened  when 
his  name  was  announced.  Her  hand  was  shak 
ing  when  he  took  it  in  his ;  but  there  was  not  a 
trace  of  expression  on  his  face. 

Miss  Willis  realized,  for  the  first  time,  that 
she  had  been  horribly  brazen  —  or,  at  least,  she 
told  herself  that  she  had  been — and  as  a  conse 
quence,  she  was  wretchedly  ill  at  ease.  Her 
distress  was  in  marked  contrast  with  the  man's 
self-possession,  which  amounted  almost  to  in 
difference.  There  was  no  spark  visible  of  the 
fire  which  had  flashed  earlier  in  the  day.  It  was 
as  though  he  had  steeled  himself  to  remain  in 
vulnerable  throughout  the  call. 

And  the  usually  composed  girl  prattled  aim 
lessly,  voicing  platitudes,  conventionalities,  ba 
nalities,  inanities  —  anything  to  gain  time  and 
to  cover  her  embarrassment :  to  all  of  which  the 
man  listened  in  sober  silence,  watching  her 
steadily. 

Abruptly,  Miss  Willis  grew  angry  with 
herself,  and  stopped.  When  angry  she  was 
collected. 

Dr.  Carter's  face  lit  up  humorously. 

[408] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

"  You  have  no  idea,"  he  said,  "  how  you  have 
relieved  my  mind." 

The  girl  looked  a  question. 

"I  supposed  I  was  the  embarrassed  indi 
vidual,"  he  laughed. 

"If  you  had  only  given  me  a  hint,"  suggested 
the  girl,  reproachfully.  She  was  now  amazed 
that  she  had  ever  lost  her  grip  upon  herself,  and 
wondered  why  she  had. 

"A  hint !"  he  exclaimed.  "I  was  dumb;  I 
thought  you  'd  see." 

The  tension  was  off,  and  they  laughed  to 
gether.  From  then  on,  both  remained  natural. 
In  the  midst  of  a  lull,  Dr.  Carter  suddenly  said : 

"  You  '11  think  me  a  barbarian,  Miss  Willis, 
but  I  have  a  request  to  make.  I  am  in  the  mood 
to-night  to  be  unconventional " — the  corners  of 
his  serious  mouth  lifted  humorously  —  "to  be 
what  I  really  am,"  he  illuminated,  "  and  to  meet 
you  in  the  same  spirit."  He  paused  with  a  little 
shrug.  "It  is  a  disappointing  reversion  to  the 
primitive,  I  must  admit."  He  glanced  up 
whimsically.  "May  I  ask  you  a  question  — 
any  question  ?  " 

"Do  you  think  it  possible,"  the  girl  evaded, 

[409] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

"  for  a  modern  woman  to  meet  you  —  the  way 
you  say  —  naturally  ?" 

He  seemed  to  question  her  seriousness. 

"  I  have  seen  little  of  women  for  a  number  of 
years,"  he  returned,  "  but  I  'd  hate  to  think  it 
impossible." 

"  Little  of  women  1 "  was  the  surprised 
comment. 

"  You  misunderstand."  he  quickly  corrected. 
"  I  go  out  so  seldom  that  the  woman  I  see  is  not 
the  real  woman  at  all;  not  the  woman  of  home." 
His  hand  made  a  little  motion  of  forbearance. 
"In  his  consultation-room  the  patients  of  a 
physician  are  —  sexless." 

"I  think  that  a  woman — that  I — can  still 
be  natural,  Dr.  Carter,"  said  Miss  Willis, 
slowly,  her  eyes  downcast.  "What  did  you 
wish  to  ask  ?  " 

It  was  his  turn  to  hesitate. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  put  it,  now  that  I 
have  permission,"  he  apologized,  with  a  depre 
catory  little  laugh. 

"We  seldom  do  things  in  this  world,"  he 
went  on  at  once,  "  unless  we  want  to,  or  unless 
the  alternative  of  not  doing  them  is  more  un- 

[410] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

pleasant."  He  merged  generalities  into  a  more 
specific  assertion.  "  There  was  no  alternative 
in  your  requesting  me  to  call.  Candidly,  why 
do  I  interest  you  ?" 

His  voice  was  alive,  and  the  woman,  now 
thoroughly  mistress  of  herself,  gazed  into  the 
frankest  of  frank  gray  eyes. 

"I  scarcely  know,"  she  said,  weighing  her 
answer.  "  Perhaps  it  was  the  novel  experience 
of  being  considered  —  sexless;  of  being  classi 
fied  by  a  number,  like  a  beetle  in  a  case.  Let 
me  answer  with  another  question :  Why  did  I 
interest  you  sufficiently  to  come  ? " 

He  sat  in  the  big  chair  with  his  chin  in  his 
hand,  looking  now  steadily  past  and  beyond  her, 
one  foot  restlessly  tapping  the  rug. 

"  I  can't  answer  without  it  seeming  so  hope 
lessly  egotistical."  The  half -whimsical,  half- 
serious  smile  returned  to  his  eyes.  "  Don't  let 
me  impose  upon  your  leniency,  please;  I  may 
wish  to  make  a  request  sometime  again." 

"I  will  accept  the  responsibility,"  she 
insisted. 

"  On  your  head,  then,  the  consequences."  He 

[411] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

spoke  lightly,  but  with  a  note  of  restlessness 
and  rebellion. 

"  To  me  you  are  attractive,  Miss  Willis,  be 
cause  you  are  everything  that  I  am  not.  With 
you  there  is  no  necessity  higher  than  the  pres 
ent;  no  responsibility  beyond  the  chance 
thought  of  the  moment.  You  choose  your 
surroundings,  your  thoughts.  Your  life  is 
what  you  make  it:  it  is  life." 

"You  certainly  would  not  charge  me  with 
being  more  independent  than  you  ? "  protested 
the  girl. 

"  Independent ! "  he  flashed  upon  her,  and  she 
knew  she  had  stirred  something  lying  close  to 
his  soul.  His  voice  grew  soft,  and  he  repeated 
the  word,  musingly,  more  to  himself  than  to 
her :  "  Independent ! " 

"  Yes,"  with  abrupt  feeling,  "  with  the  sort 
of  independence  that  chooses  its  own  manner  of 
absolute  dependence;  with  the  independence 
that  gives  you  only  so  much  of  my  time,  so  that 
the  remainder  may  go  to  another;  with  the  in 
dependence  of  imperative  impartiality;  the  sort 
of  independence  that  is  never  through  working 

[412] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

and  planning  for  others — that 's  the  independ 
ence  I  know." 

"But  there  are  breathing-spells,"  inter 
rupted  Miss  Willis,  smilingly.  "  To-night,  for 
example,  you  are  not  working  for  somebody 
else." 

"  You  compel  me  to  incriminate  myself,"  he 
rejoined,  the  whimsical,  half -serious  smile  again 
lighting  his  gray  eyes.  "  I  should  be  working 
now,  and  I  will  have  to  make  up  the  lost  time 
when  I  go  home."  He  bowed  gallantly.  "  The 
pleasure  is  double  with  me,  you  observe;  I  do 
not  think  twice  about  paying  a  double  price  for 
it." 

He  spoke  lightly,  almost  mockingly;  but  be 
neath  the  surface  there  was  even  the  bitter  ring 
of  revolt,  and  constantly  before  the  girl  were  the 
little  gestures,  intense,  impatient,  that  conveyed 
a  meaning  he  did  not  voice.  She  could  feel  in 
it  all  the  insistent  atmosphere  of  the  town, 
where  time  is  counted  by  seconds.  She  won 
dered  that  he  felt  as  he  did,  ignorant  that  the 
disquiet  had  come  into  his  life  only  during  the 
past  week.  To  her,  the  glimpse  of  activity  was 
fascinating  simply  because  it  was  in  sharp 
Nisi 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

contrast  with  her  life  of  comparative,  dull 
emptiness. 

He  caught  the  wistful  look  on  her  face. 

"  You  wonder  that  I  rebel,"  he  said,  with  an 
odd  little  throaty  laugh.  "  I  couldn't  well  ap 
pear  any  more  unsophisticated :  I  might  as  well 
tell  you.  It 's  not  the  work  itself,  but  the  lack 
of  anything  else  but  work  that  makes  the  lives 
of  such  as  I  so  bare.  We  are  constantly  holding 
a  stop-watch  on  time  itself,  fearful  of  losing  a 
second ;  the  scratch  of  a  pen  sealing  the  life  of 
a  Nation,  commuting  a  death-sentence,  defining 
the  difference  between  a  man's  success  and  ruin 
can  all  be  accomplished  in  a  second.  If  we  let 
that  second  get  away  from  us,  we  have  been 
deaf  to  Opportunity's  knock.  We  stop  at  times 
to  think;  and  then  the  object  for  which  we  give 
our  all  appears  so  petty  and  inadequate,  and 
what  we  are  losing,  so  great.  We  laugh  at  our 
work  at  such  times,  and  for  the  moment  hate 
it."  But  he  laughed  lightly,  and  finished  with 
a  deprecating  little  minor. 

"You  see,  I'm  relaxing  to-night  —  and 
thinking." 

"  But,"  Miss  Willis  protested,  "  I  don't  see 

[414] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

why  you  should  have  only  the  one  thing  in  your 
life.  It  is  certainly  unnecessary,  unless  you 
choose." 

He  smiled  indulgently. 

"  You  have  no  conception  of  what  it  means 
to  shape  your  life  to  your  income.  I  am  poor, 
and  I  know.  Years  ago  I  had  to  choose  between 
mediocrity  and" — he  looked  at  her  peculiarly 

—  "  and  love,  or  advancement  alone.    I  had  to 
choose,  and  fixing  my  choice  upon  the  higher 
aim,  I  had  to  put  everything  else  out  of  my  life. 
The  thought  is  intolerable  that  my  name  should 
always  be  under  another's  upon  some  office- 
door.    You  know  what  I  chose :  you  know  noth 
ing  of  the  constant  struggle  which  alone  keeps 
me,  mind,  soul,  and  body,  centred  upon  my 
ideal,  nor  how  readily  I  respond  to  a  tempta 
tion  to  turn  aside. 

"This,"  he  completed  listlessly,  "is  one  of 
the  nights  when  the  price  seems  too  large;  in 
spite  of  me,  regret  will  creep  in." 

"  But,"  persisted  the  girl,  "  when  you  succeed 

—  it  will  not  be— too  late?"     There  was  a 
plaintive  inquiry  in  the  words;  the  tragedy  of 
the  man's  life  had  awakened  pity. 

[415] 


A  BREATH  OF  PRAIRIE 

He  spoke  with  a  sudden  passion  that  startled 
her. 

"  It  is  too  late  already;  my  work  has  refash 
ioned  my  life.  I  am  desperately  restless  except 
when  doing  something  that  counts;  something 
visible;  and  doing  it  intensely.  I'll  never"  — 
his  voice  was  bitter  with  regret — "never  con 
form —  now." 

The  girl  answered,  almost  unconsciously. 

"  I  think  you  can,"  she  hesitated,  "  and  will." 

For  a  long,  long  moment  they  searched  each 
other's  eyes. 

"And  this  price  you  are  paying,"  said  the 
girl  at  last,  "  is  it  worth  it  ?  " 

The  man  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Ah,  I  wonder  !  To-night  doubt  has  under 
mined  my  resolution." 

"  If  you  question  yourself  so  seriously,"  she 
said  very  softly,  "then  surely  you  can  find  but 


one  answer." 


"Again  I  wonder.  I  have  wondered  and  — 
and  hoped — God  help  me  !  —  since  the  moment 
I  looked  into  your  eyes." 

Suddenly  he  was  out  of  his  chair  and  coming 

[416] 


WORTH   OF   THE   PRICE 

toward  her.  Her  heart  leaped,  her  eyes  shone; 
she  extended  her  hands  in  welcome. 

"  Then  you  will  come  again,"  she  whispered, 
as  they  drew  together. 

"  If  you  will  let  me.    I  could  n't  stay  away 


now." 


THE  END 


[417] 


YC  96824 


